


My Fake French Fiance

by ChampagneSly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Romance, Romance novel spoof, Smut, Tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-15 17:11:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneSly/pseuds/ChampagneSly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Borrowing a plot from a random Harlequin novel...</p><p>Pretending to be Francis Bonnefoy’s fiance wasn’t high on Jos van Rijn’s list of priorities.  But he owed the Frenchman a favor, and Francis’ persuasive charm and sinful masculinity - not to mention his sizzling kisses - were impossible to refuse.  Helping Francis meant spending time together publicly, but the private moments they shared made Jos wonder how he’d ever survive this engagement with his heart intact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

If there was one thing Jos van Rijn loved (with the exception of his younger sister and a pack of smokes), it was an afternoon spent pouring over spreadsheets. Perhaps it was because in many ways the black and white clarity of facts, figures and formulas all contained in neat cells was much like the heart of the man, but for whatever reason, there was little that Jos enjoyed more than closing his office door and clicking through tab after tab of data that frequently gave him all the answers he ever thought he needed in life.

Oh, Jos was more than aware of all the skills he used on a daily basis to maintain his status as Amsterdam’s highest paid tax accountant, but numbers did not require conversation and they certainly did not insist on attempting to turn business into pleasure. Numbers did not care that he was apparently statistically better than average looking. Excel never commented upon how the summer grass green of his eyes contrasted so beautifully with the color of his hair, or expressed a desire to become better acquainted with long legs. Data did not lean across desks and murmur to compliments about lips that scowled with more sexiness than a Parisian model. Microsoft office might have had an irritating propensity to crash in the midst of a complicated query, but it had yet to proposition him for a more up close and personal sort of consultation. 

Jos van Rijn was handsome, erudite, charming when the mood suited, and yet for all that he enjoyed calculations of all kinds, he despised unnecessary entanglements even more than he enjoyed wringing advantages from people who were so clearly willing to give him more than was warranted if only he would give a little something of himself in exchange. 

He had almost always found such investments hardly worth the time, energy, or risk for the potential reward. Just once had he come close to committing the capital, only to be saved the humiliation of losing it all when the other partner in the deal cut and run. 

In all the years following that near brush with ruin, Jos had kept his distance from greedy hands that wished for access to more than his financial expertise and coolly informed his irritatingly nosy and concerned friends and family that he was more than content to continue be wildly successful and assuredly single.

While he could not avoid meetings or the idle flattery of networking, nor deny that the cut of his body in a black suit had opened the occasional door, Jos was (and believed he always would be happiest) with a smoke between his lips, a mouse beneath his fingers and data spread before him like the lines of a lover on white sheets. 

And so, it was always with a sigh of satisfaction that every Friday morning he told Raivis to hold all his calls, shut the door, turned on the computer and lit his third smoke of the day in anticipation of a quiet, uninterrupted morning of the uncomplicated bliss of finance. 

Which is why when his office line rang at 10:47am on a Friday morning of no great importance, Jos eyed the blinking red light with suspicion and answered the call with a grumbled, “I will assume this is a matter of life and death, Galante. If it is not, I will assume it is a matter of your immediate termination.” 

He took pleasure in envisioning the way Raivis trembled as he clicked save, extinguished his cigarette and waited for his assistant to stop stumbling over his words.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Van Rijn! But the gentleman insisted that he speak with you immediately! He wouldn’t take no for an answer! No matter how many times I told him no! I even tried saying no in other languages! Please, please don’t fire me!” Raivis rambled and pleaded, until Jos could take it no more and cut him off with an abrupt,

“Enough. You’ve already interrupted, so I may as well make of it what I can,” Jos said coolly, wondering which of his idiot associates didn’t know the unspoken Friday morning rule. “So, who is the caller?” 

“Um,” Raivis gulped, “Well, you see…he didn’t say. He just said that he simply had to talk to you at once, and that I was to be a darling and stop hemming and hawing and transfer him.” 

Jos frowned, the word darling curdling in his stomach. He drummed his fingers on his desk and risked the question he did not wish to ask, “By any chance, did this man have an obnoxious French accent?” 

Raivis gasp of surprise was more than enough to confirm Jos’ suspicions, and he swore he could hear the tolling of warning bells in Raivis’ spluttered, “He said you would know who he was! And he was right!” 

“I wish I weren’t,” Jos groused, cold fury and strange nervousness coiling around his heart, “But you may as well put him through.”

Jos knew enough to know that the man on the other line was not one to give up when there was something he wanted. He only gave up when he did not want what he had once seemed to want so intensely.

“Okay….” Raivis said hesitantly, apparently yet to recover from his shock that Jos would deign to speak to someone during his special number time, “If you’re sure.”

“I’m always sure,” Jos snapped, though he felt anything but certain in that moment when he was flooded with memories and regrets he’d thought were long dead and decayed. “Do it.” 

He swallowed as the line clicked, once-twice, and his heart raced unnecessarily and his fingers crushed a perfectly good smoke, a voice he had never been able to forget purred, “My darling. How good of you to take my call!” 

To his great relief, the echo of *that* word in his ears was more than enough to return him to sanity. He closed his eyes and reveled in the balm of cool professionalism as he bit out, “Bonnefoy. What do you want?” 

“So cold, my dear, dear Mr. Van Rijn,” Bonnefoy murmured prettily and Jos could almost picture the amusement that would light the Cote d’Azur blue of his eyes, (t _he same way his gaze had glinted the first time Jos had told him to go fuck himself and then parted his lips to be kissed),_ and he wished he could wipe the smirk he remembered from that smug face. “Certainly after all our many years of acquaintance we are beyond such formalities?” 

Jos gritted his teeth and stood from his chair, pacing the floors of his office as he wondered exactly what aspect of their “acquaintance” Bonnefoy believed warranted such annoying presumptions and casually possessive terms of endearment. Was it the  three occasions he’d done tax work for the Bonnefoy family? Was the two hours they had spent in the company of three hundred other people for the opening of yet another of Bonnefoy’s luxury boutiques? Was it the shared contacts and colleagues that came with being a member of the Amsterdam business elite?

Or was it the six weeks they had spent in each other’s beds and in each other’s arms, when Jos was too young and foolish to understand that fucks as passionate as their debates and the sincerity of the smiles Jos had given were not enough to tempt Francis Bonnefoy.

Francis Bonnefoy—a man who was as charmed as the city of his birth, as beautiful and inescapable as the Eiffel Tower, and as cold and dangerous as the Seine by moonlight. He had a scheming mind and a cutting wit that to this day Jos could not but appreciate, but his heart was apparently not to be bought by anyone, no matter how many suitors had tried and failed, all falling for the wiles of one of Europe’s most notorious bachelors. 

A man who had once taken Jos to bed, spun wild day dreams of daring hostile takeovers beneath the sheets when the sex was over and the passion had momentarily cooled, and in the morning left Jos standing in front of an empty bed with a second cup of coffee and his affection in hand. 

And with the slamming of the door, he had poured both down the drain and resolved never to be more than anyone’s business associate. 

“Stop wasting my time, Bonnefoy,” Jos said coldly, uninterested in remembering how to play any of Francis’ favorite games, “And tell me what you want.” 

Francis laughed, careless, costly thing that grated his patience. “As pointed as ever, my darling.” Jos tightened his hold around the phone and debated the likelihood of Francis giving up the degrading my-this and my-that if he made enough of a fuss. “But as for what I want, Jos,” Francis murmured so sweetly it was as though he relished the taste of his name, “I want nothing more than to take you to lunch today. I’ve checked with your charming assistant and I know your calendar is open. So, Ciel Bleu, 12:00pm? My treat, of course.” 

Jos stared at the blank expanse of his wall and tried to parse such nonsense, all too aware that Francis Bonnefoy never wanted anything without strings attached. He shook his head and laughed derisively, determined to put an end to this farce before Bonnefoy received further amusement at his expense. 

“No.” 

“Just like that? Without even asking why I might wish to have your company for a two-Michelin star lunch?” Francis teased lightly. The warmth of his tone had Jos reaching for a cigarette, uncaring that he had already broken his no more than two a morning rule. “However do you succeed in securing clients with such a surly attitude? Not that I don’t heartily approve of handsome men who play hard to get, my darling, but, really, you ought to be more considerate when someone is attempting to make you a very good offer.” 

Jos paused in lighting the smoke, narrowing in on the two words of importance in Francis’ incessant flirtation and prattle. He sucked on the end of the cigarette, the burn of smoke in his lungs calming and clarifying. “Are you attempting to request my services?” Jos asked, exhaling slowly as he sank into his chair, fiddling aimlessly with the mouse. 

“In more ways than one,” Francis murmured so thickly that Jos was seconds away from putting an end to the call and his traitorous desire to hear more before Bonnefoy cleared his throat and continued merrily, “Indeed I am, my darling! Surely you must have heard of my dear Grandmama’s recent passing and now I am desperate need of your financial expertise as I work through all the messy details of securing my inheritance.”

“I see.” Jos smoked and considered. The Bonnefoy holdings were considerable and complex, and he did not doubt that the heir to entire estate would be in need of more than one capable adviser. He also did not doubt that if he took this contract, it would prove very lucrative in both cash and exposure for his firm. What he did doubt was his own ability to tolerate Francis Bonnefoy for more than two hours at a time. There was only so much blue eyed and honeyed charm he wished to withstand, no matter then potential profit.

He took another drag and let smoke curl around his fingers as he gave his answer, “Please accept my condolences on the loss of your grandmother. And my congratulations on assuming control of the Bonnefoy empire. But I am afraid I cannot be of service to you at this time.” 

“So cold, my darling,” Francis said so softly Jos wondered if he heard it at all. “And while I thank you for your condolences, I am afraid I cannot accept the congratulations as the Board of Directors has yet to officially name me as the President of Bonnefoy Holdings.” 

“Why not?” Jos asked, reluctantly intrigued since everyone had known for as long as he could remember that Francis had always been the old Bonnefoy matriarch’s favorite and intended heir to the family’s corporate fortune, groomed for it since birth. 

“Ahh, there are some complications. Complications that are far too complex for me to manage without a very particular and valuable sort of expertise,” Francis sighed heavily and to his despair, Jos knew that he was going to cave the damning and irresistible ploy of Francis’ pleading tone and his own inability to walk away from a fixable fiscal fiasco. 

“And it is my expertise you need so desperately?” Jos drawled, wondering why he wished he had worn his gray suit instead of the black. 

“I’m afraid so, my darling,” Francis replied, a little too quickly. “There’s simply no other recourse. You are, without doubt, the best solution to my little problem. So do be my knight in shining armor and hear me out over lunch.”

Jos flushed and sighed, for all that he hoped the fix Francis needed would be quick and profitable, he was still burdened with reluctance, doubt, and the memory of azure eyes in the morning. Memories that had no importance whatsoever—memories that were as worthless as the promises Francis had once made him.

No matter what happened over hors d’oeuvres, Jos was determined that this arrangement remain strictly business. 

“Very well, I agree to a one hour consultation regarding your grandmother’s estate. During this time, we will discuss nothing more than the complications preventing your inheritance. Agreed?” 

Francis laughed and gave a great sigh of relief, chattering happily, “Oh, yes, yes! Of course, my darling! I will speak of nothing else!” 

“Good,” Jos offered coolly, “Then I will see you at noon at Ciel Bleu.” 

“Until then, my dove,” Francis purred, all light and air and the sunshine of Provence once more, “I promise you won’t regret it.” 

Jos already did.


	2. Chapter 2

The restaurant was refined, luxurious without pretension, modern and sleek—every inch of the space from the breathtaking views of Amsterdam to the shine of the bread knife whispering of wealth and exclusivity—much like the man who commanded the best table in the house, who sat waiting for Jos to hand his coat to the attendant and bridge the distance between them. For a long moment, Jos lingered at the host desk and simply looked at Francis Bonnefoy, wondering if he had just checked his sanity with his jacket as he weighed the potential fall out to his professional reputation if he simply turned and walked away. 

Jos could not deny that Bonnefoy looked good, _(but then again, his traitorous memories insisted, Francis had always looked good, even early in the morning with mussed hair and naked skin stained red in places he had touched the night before)_ , impeccably dressed in a slate gray suit with a tie that was the exact shade of his eyes. Not that Jos recalled any specific details regarding the color of Bonnefoy’s eyes, it was merely an observable fact that Francis always sought to highlight his best features, from the casual sweep of his blond hair over his shoulder to draw attention to the curve of his throat to the confident splay of his legs beneath the table, inviting the gaze to linger on the hollow of his knee or the tapping of graceful fingers on the slope of the thigh.

All of it—every movement, every purse of his lips and flick of his eyelashes at the hapless sommelier who offered the wine list—all of it, Jos knew was artifice and calculation, so finely executed that he was standing in front of an empty chair before he had time to think better of it. The evening blue glint of Bonnefoy’s gaze was more arresting than the view of Amsterdam beyond the window pane, and as Francis rose from his chair to brush his smile over each cheek, Jos regretted that he had not better recalled how dangerous it was to be the object of Francis’ attention. 

“My darling,” Francis murmured as he returned to his seat, leaving Jos to endure the scent of his cologne and the lingering warmth of his highly inappropriate greeting, “How good of you to join me. Please, do sit down.” Jos frowned and shook his head to clear the clouds of remembered desire that always followed in Francis’ wake, craving a cigarette as he sat down and ignored the playful and lying sweetness of Francis’ smile. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a bottle of the 2004 Blanchot, I think it will pair marvelously with the turbot and caviar. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Jos schooled his features into impassivity and spread his napkin across his lap. ignoring the way Bonnefoy tracked his movements with an appreciative grin. “I’ve no opinion on anything other your pressing matters of business.” He looked deliberately at his watch, smirking coolly as he tapped his finger to the glass face. “You have 58 minutes, Bonnefoy. Do not waste my time with questions of wine.” 

“All business and no pleasure,” Francis said lightly, waving the sommelier over and whispering in his ear, hand drifting to the man’s waist as he bent to take Francis’ request. Jos loathed the curve of lips that spoke to him once more, parting around words that had no place in his ordered life. “Such a pity, you once so enjoyed the thrill of anticipation. But if you now prefer direct penetration of the problem at hand, well, I suppose I have no other choice but to give you what you want.” 

Jos refused to give ground, refused to show any cards to this master player, shrugging and pulling his phone from his pocket. If Francis would not play the rules he had set, Jos would spend the hour he’d promised doing something more productive and far less incendiary than acknowledging such low, flirtatious taunts. 

“Honestly, my darling, you are no fun any more,” Francis pouted, earning the full weight of Jos’ startled disdain as a bold soft hand covered the fingers that held his phone.

“I wasn’t aware I was ever any fun,” Jos muttered, snatching his hand away and letting the phone clatter to the table, looking away as the sommelier returned to pour their wine and simper for Francis’ careless approval. 

“Then we remember things very differently,” Francis breathed, swirling the white wine around and around the bowl of his glass, a motion so casual it could only be the result of practice and precision. Jos stared defiantly and sipped the wine he knew would be more than good, for Francis had always been an expert at seducing the senses. Francis sighed, cradling the glass between finger and thumb, “But I suppose this is why you are the perfect solution to my little conundrum.” Jos swallowed as Francis ensnared him in his gaze, sharp and calculating and maybe even a bit fond, teasing softly, “My serious and severe Prince Charming.” 

“Get to the point,” Jos snarled quietly, “Or I’m leaving.” 

“If you insist,” Francis demured with an amused wink, abandoning his Burgundy for his briefcase. Jos tempered his curiosity and forced his eyes to stare only out the window and not at the roll of Francis’ shoulders or the sway of obscene blond hair when he straightened in his chair and slid a sheath of papers and  little black box across the table. The papers he understood—Grandmother Bonnefoy’s last will and testament. As for the other, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Jos raised an eyebrow and Francis smiled thinly, gesturing at his offerings. “Well, there you have it, my darling. The point of our little reunion.”

“I am neither a lawyer nor an appraiser, so I am not sure what you wish me to do with legal documents and jewelry,” Jos said carefully, wary of the frustration and expectation cutting grooves in a normally impeccably smooth forehead.

Francis laughed humorlessly, pointing one long and manicured finger at the documents, “Oh, I don’t need you to do anything with the documents, my dove. I simply brought that as proof, should you have reason to doubt the reasoning behind what I am about to…propose. As for the other, well…all I can say is that I hope I correctly recalled the size of your finger.” 

With the word proposal echoing in his ears and his vision narrowing on the  black box sliding across fine white linen, Jos lost all faculty of reason and thought. 

Surely, this wasn’t happening. Surely, he was still sitting at his desk about to wake from a horrifying nightmare. With unbelieving eyes, he met Francis’ expectant and amused gaze, stealing his hands away from the table lest a single finger touch the offensive object Francis continued to push towards his bread plate.

“Well, go on. Open it, my darling,” Francis said drolly, stroking the black velvet as he pouted too prettily in the face of Jos’ abject confusion and horror. “It will be very difficult for me to ask you to marry me if you won’t even look at the ring. And I did try to find the one I thought suited you best. It took me ages to find a stone that matched your eyes.”

“What?’ Jos croaked, mind broken by the utter impossibility of Francis Bonnefoy asking him lunch and unholy matrimony. He gaze flitted from his wine, to Francis’ wry smile, back to the wine, and then finally to the glint of a platinum band and a single emerald gem. Idly, he thought that if he ever were to have gotten engaged that would have been the ring he wanted. Simple, plain, sturdy…and then with a great rush of perplexed outrage, Jos returned to his senses. He glared at Francis, asking with icy precision, “What would possess you to think that I would want to marry you?”

“I don’t _want_ you to marry me, my darling,” Francis smiled sharply and shook his head, pinky finger sliding through the band and lifting it from the box. “I _need_ you to marry me. Or at the very least act as my fiancé for the foreseeable future.”

“What?” Jos repeated, reaching for his wine glass with a shaking hand, only to spill his water when he was blinded by the shine of a ring on Francis’ finger. A ring that looked far too similar to the one dangling precariously from Bonnefoy’s pinky but for the sapphire that replaced emerald. He stared. “Have you lost your mind, Bonnefoy?”

Francis sighed and dropped his hand over the documents that Jos had entirely forgotten in all the dramatics of being unexpected and ludicrous proposals. “No, but I am great danger of losing my fortune and my company if I can’t come up with a suitable spouse in the next forty-eight hours.”

At any other time, Jos would have loathed sounding like a broken record, but needs must. “What?”

“Oh, it really is the most boring story, my darling,” Francis drawled, the tip of his tongue touching the corner of his lip as he made Jos’ his unwilling captive. “But you see, Grandmama—who always had such a wicked sense of humor and peculiarly shrewd way of seeing the world—while she adored me almost entirely and has been grooming me as heir to the Bonnefoy throne…it seems she somehow found me quite…profligate and promiscuous.”

“You are,” Jos intoned flatly, taking minute comfort in the irritated twist to Francis’ most flattering smile.

Francis waved off the insult, raising his hand to dangle the ring in Jos’ face, “Yes, well. And though she never expressed any concern while she was living, the old crow seems to have harbored reservations that in this day and age of information and gossip that moves at the speed of light, my love affairs and escapades would inevitably do harm to the Bonnefoy brand.”

“I see….” Jos mumbled, drinking heavily and avoiding a single glance at the ring as he tried to process the nonsense he was hearing.

“And so,” Francis said dramatically, rolling his eyes and smirking disdainfully, “My dearest, terribly clever Grandmama has stipulated in her will that in order to assume control of the company and fully inherit all her assets, I must present the Board of Directors with a fiancé and convince this group of her old cronies that the relationship is genuine. And I need to make said introduction this weekend during the launch of our newest product line.” Francis flicked his wrist and ring tumbled to Jos’ bread plate, tinkling merrily as it spun and dropped. “And there you have it, my darling Mr. Bonnefoy-to-be.”

Jos stared and drank and drank and stared until there was no more wine in his glass and there was no avoiding the heaviness of Francis’ gaze nor the shine of platinum on his plate. Jos closed his eyes and breathed deeply, falling back on the oldest trick in his book to make sense of this mess. Slowly, surely, he realigned all the facts, figures, and ridiculous assertions before him until he could add up the columns and come to several conclusions.

He opened his eyes and reached for his knife, picking up the offensive object from his plate and holding it before Francis. “Your grandmother died four months ago,” Jos observed coldly, “Why are you doing this now?”   


“As sharp as always,” Francis murmured, “I’ve always liked that about you.” Jos’ frown deepened, attempting to warn Francis that he ought not like anything about Jos. Francis smiled slyly, undaunted. “You aren’t wrong. I’ve spent the past four months in every law office in the world trying to find a way out of the infernal contract. But the old woman was the cleverest by far and now here I am with four days to spare in need of a _love of my life_ ,” Francis finished scornfully, as though the very idea was distasteful.

Jos found he could relate to the sentiment, storm clouds of denied memory gathering in his mouth as he came to the crux of this entire face, pinning Bonnefoy in place with his most withering and disgusted glare.

“And you thought that I, of all people, would be the best choice for such a charade?” 

Francis titled his head and peered at him through his eyelashes, a slow blink of seduction that he had once thought tasted so sweet, “Who else but you, my darling?” 

Jos scoffed and thrust the knife bearing the ring towards Francis, warding off his smoulder. “Anyone else. Any of your sycophants and cronies.” 

“I prefer to think of them as friends and associates,” Francis purred, “But I am afraid they simply won’t do.” 

“Carriedo,” Jos challenged, parrying his wedding ring laden cutlery with each suggestion.  


“Shaking up with an Italian who may have connections to the mob. Far too risky.’ 

“Beilschmidt.”

“Which one?”

“Either.” 

“Ludwig is already married and Gilbert would kill me for suggesting it. Also, while his uncouth manners would have my Grandmama rolling in her grave, I do not think he’ll make the right kind of impression on the Board.” 

“The annoying American.”

“Alfred? Too many funny notions about honor and love to go through with it.”  


“Kirkland.” 

“Oh, my darling. He has yet to forgive me for a thousand cuts and slights. No one who has read an inch of our tabloid press would believe it for a second. So, he’s out as well.” 

Exasperated, Jos almost let it slip that _he_ had yet to forgive Bonnefoy for slights that were of no real importance, (it was just the principle of the matter. It was impractical and unprofessional to break a verbal commitment without a care for the other party and expect to suffer no penalty!) only to catch the rebuke on the tip of his tongue.

He did not wish to give Bonnefoy the satisfaction of believing Jos ever wasted a moment thinking of their brief shared history. 

“Fine. Anyone else. I can hardly be your first choice.” 

Francis pushed the knife down gently, the tip of his finger tilting the blade so the ring trembled on the precipice of falling. “Not only are you the best choice, you are my only choice.” 

“You are delusional.” Jos blinked in disbelief, cradling his forehead in one hand as Francis pried the knife from the other. “How can that possibly be true?” 

“Do you think so little of your own charms, my pet?” Francis said softly, weaving a spell with his words as he stroked the inside of Jos’ arm, “You’re almost unbearably handsome. We look so good together, most people won’t need any greater confirmation of our love. Furthermore, you are successful and intelligent—a known quantity in the business world, with enough money to escape the Board’s suspicion of fortune hunters, and a enough connections to be accepted by the highest echelons of the elite. You must see why you are the perfect choice.” 

Jos blinked and shook his head, while Francis slid the ring over the tip of his ring finger, holding just above the first knuckle as he murmured, “A man with money, power, and respectability would have no need to be my fiance unless he truly loved me.” 

“But I do not love you,” Jos answered quietly, attempting to wrest his finger and his attention from Francis’ grasp. 

Francis laughed dismissively and held him more tightly, “No, but everyone will think that you do when I introduce you as my dearly beloved.” 

“When?” Jos gritted out, anger coloring his words, “That will never happen, Bonnefoy. I want no part of your farce.” 

“Oh, I think you do,” Francis said gently, eyes narrowing dangerously. Jos bared his teeth and wished he didn’t it like it when Francis looked like this, like a man who knew exactly how to bend someone to his will with kid gloves over iron fists. It was a look he knew too well from the reflection in the mirror. “You will be a part of this, you will be my adoring and charming fiance for as long as I deem necessary because you owe me, my darling.” 

Jos seethed with anger and desperate attraction, loathing the touch of Francis’ fingers to his skin and the knowing curve of Francis’ smile as he gritted out, “Veronika.” 

“Very good, very good! So quick on the uptake! Yet another quality I’ve long admired in you, sweetheart.” Francis murmured delightedly, pulling him nearer as he slid the platinum lie that glinted green over Jos’ knuckle. “I’m so glad you remember who it is that has a majority stake in your sister’s shop. Who it was that put up the capital all those years ago and still holds the purse-strings to little sister’s hopes and dreams.”

Jos thought of his sister, thought of her precious store and remembered how he had introduced Francis to Veronika when he’d still been under Francis’ spell and had no reason to believe that he wasn’t a good long term investment. And now, here he was, six years later beholden to the investment Francis had made on a whim over breakfast in Brussels in his sister’s future.   


“You’re horrible,” Jos whispered with desperate loathing and admiration, watching the splay of Francis’ pale eyelashes over cold, cold blue eyes. 

“And you like it,” Francis returned just as quietly, pushing the ring all the way down and kissing the tip of his captured fingers. 

Jos wished he could deny it, wished he could pull away and throw the ring in Francis’ face and storm off in satisfied outrage. But there was no question of risking Veronika’s future, even if a part of him doubted that Bonnefoy would go to such lengths, it was too much to chance. 

He snatched his hand away and met Francis’ amused and victorious gaze with chilled fury, resigning himself to his fate with as little grace as he could muster. “Fine. You win. I’ll play your little game, Bonnefoy.” 

Francis laughed and winked, waving his matching ring in the direction of the waiter, “I think this calls for champagne.” He clucked his tongue and smiled at Jos, “No need to look so severe, my darling. It shouldn’t be much of a hardship being the intended of the Bonnefoy heir.” He paused, considering, brightening as he offered carelessly, “And if you’re successful at convincing everyone that you simply cannot do without me, when this is all over, I’ll name your firm the sole accountancy for the Bonnefoy empire!” 

Jos frowned and wondered if he had ever hated anyone more than he hated this man in this moment. “Do not attempt to buy me when you have already blackmailed me, Bonnefoy.” 

Jos watched as his…fiance..stood from his chair, an expression of deadly hardening his handsome features as he approached, elegant hand outstretched as he took Jos’ chin between his fingers and titled his head. Jos glared unrepentantly, mouth gone dry and heart racing. 

“Francis,” Bonnefoy whispered silky just before he brushed his lips once, twice, thrice over Jos’ angry mouth, “You must call me Francis now, my darling.” Jos closed his eyes and struggled for composure as Francis kissed him more deeply, tongue slipping between his lips and reminding him of all the reasons why he’d once been such a fool. 

“Mmm,” Francis said as he pulled away, rubbing his thumb gently over the wetness of Jos’ bottom lip, gaze softened somehow as he kissed the flush of his cheeks, “I knew there was another reason I had thought you were the perfect choice.” 

“I hate you,” Jos murmured. 

“I doubt that very much,” Francis answered blithely as he returned to his seat, “But regardless of whether or not you harbor such useless emotions, I look forward to your debut in Paris this weekend, Mr. Bonnefoy.” 

Jos looked at his ring and looked at Francis’ smile and wondered if he still had Carriedo’s number in his Rolodex, suddenly very interested in connections to the mob.


	3. Chapter 3

**My Fake French Fiancé, Interlude**

**To: j_vanrijn@bloomaccountants.nl**  
 **From: fbonnefoy@bfholdings.fr**  
 **Cc: mwilliams@bfholdings.fr**  
 **Subject: My dearly beloved, your signature is required**  
 **Attachments: NDA_JVR_FB.docx**  
  
My darling,  
  
There are not words to express the depths of my joy that you have accepted my proposal. I am certain that you, too, are still speechless, my handsome Dutch prince. If only I were there to kiss those silent lips—but all things in good time.  
  
There is, however, much legality to express the depths of my insistence that all matters pertaining to our arrangement remain our little secret.  
  
With the exception of my Chief of Staff, cc’ed above, I require that no one be made aware of the details of our relationship. I am certain that as a man who appreciates discretion and privacy, you will understand the necessity of signing the attached non-disclosure agreement and abiding by the terms contained within. Be a dear and return a notarized copy by COB.  
  
Mr. Williams will follow-up with further details, including the itinerary for the Paris launch party. If you have any questions or concerns (though what concerns can there be in a world where we are together?), Williams can assist you. If there is anything your heart desires, simply let Willams know and he shall ensure that you have it post haste.  
  
Of course, if these are desires of a more personal nature, you may address those directly to me, my darling.  
  
Only the best of everything for my intended.  
  
I count the hours until our reunion in Paris, sweet.  
  
Yours always,  
Francis  
  
 **To: fbonnefoy@bfholdings.fr**  
 **From: j_vanrijn@bloomaccountants.nl**  
 **Cc: mwilliams@bfholdings.fr**  
 **Subject: Signed. Sealed. Delivered.**  
 **Attachments: NDA_JVR_FB_final.pdf**  
  
I’ve sent the signed document via DHL overnight.   
  
-JvR  
  
 **To: j_vanrijn@bloomaccountants.nl**  
 **From: fbonnefoy@bfholdings.fr**  
 **Subject: Signed, sealed, delivered—you’re mine.**  
  
My darling,  
  
I do hope you intend to make a more convincing effort in person than you do in your emails. Try to remember that we are in love.  
  
But I shall reserve any further censure until we are reunited and I can observe a more hands-on demonstration of your affection for your fiancé.  
  
Until then,  
Francis  
  
 **To: fbonnefoy@bfholdings.fr**  
 **From: j_vanrijn@bloomaccountants.nl**  
 **Subject: Only in writing**  
  
Rest assured that I will uphold my end of the bargain, Bonnefoy.  
  
But as there were no contractual stipulations dictating the content of my electronic communication, I shall take great pleasure in this last opportunity to say:  
  
Fuck you…..Francis.  
  
JvR  
  
 **From: mwilliams@bfholdings.fr**  
 **To: j_vanrijn@bloomaccountants.nl**  
 **Subject: Paris Launch Event**  
 **Attachments: press_release.docx, launch_itinerary.pdf, fourseasons_confirmation.pdf**  
  
Dear Mr. Van Rijn,  
  
It is a pleasure to make your (electronic) acquaintance. I look forward to the pleasure of meeting you in person this weekend. I would perhaps rather we were meeting under slightly less odd circumstances, but we must make of it what we may!  
  
As Francis indicated, as his Chief of Staff, I am privy to the finer details of your arrangement and I am happy to do what I can do make this process run as smoothly as possible for the duration of your engagement.  
  
Please find the itinerary for the weekend attached. A car will pick you up from the train station and escort you to the fitting with Francis’ preferred tailor. The launch event, which will be attended by several of Bonnefoy Holding board members, will take place from 8 – 10pm at the Four Seasons Hotel George V—where you will also be staying. Francis has booked the Royal Suite. Confirmation attached.  
  
My understanding is that following the launch, you will join Francis on his travels as well as stay at his homes in Paris and Amsterdam when he is not needed abroad. Our goal is to expose you (Francis’ term—not mine) to as many of the board members as possible in a short time while also building credibility for your relationship.  
  
As a courtesy, I’ve also included the press release that Francis intends to circulate to the media following your big debut. He doesn’t know that I am sending this to you—but I think it is only fair that you should be forewarned and prepared for the barrage of interest that comes with being attached to the Bonnefoy name.  
  
I look forward to meeting you on Saturday.  
  
With best wishes,  
  
Matthew Williams  
  
 **From: j_vanrijn@bloomaccountants.nl**  
 **To: j_bendtner@bloomaccountants.nl**  
 **Subject: PR & Corporate Communications in response to potential forthcoming press releases**  
 **High Importance**  
  
Jens-  
  
As director of communications for Bloom Accountants, I feel it is necessary to make you aware of the likely flurry of press activity and interest that will result from an upcoming announcement that concerns me.  
  
Though this announcement will be of a personal nature, it will doubtless come as a surprise and generate gossip and speculation that will not be limited to the personal realm.  
  
Please remember that it is your job to deflect questions and certainly not question any decision of mine—no matter how shocking it may seem. No matter how unlikely, ridiculous, or unbelievable. No questions. I trust you understand.  
  
Rest assured that I am in full control and have not made any decisions lightly, no matter what outside idiots may dare to suggest. All I ask is that in your capacity as spokesperson for the company (and by extension for me) you deliver enthusiastic and unwavering support for my decisions and attempt to temper as much scrutiny as possible.  
  
My thanks in advance for your efforts.  
  
JvR  
  
 **From: j_vanrijn@bloomaccountants.nl**  
 **To: vvanrijn@chocolatbelle.nl**  
 **Subject: Ask no questions and I will tell no lies**  
  
Veronika-  
  
Although you are in America at the moment, I’ve little hope of you escaping the news. Come Sunday morning you may find yourself wondering if your brother has lost his mind.  
  
I have not. No matter what you believe nor how angry you may be on my behalf—I ask that you trust that I know what I am doing.  And that I have my reasons.  
  
Trust me. Please.  
  
Be well.  
  
Jos  
  
 **From: j_bendtner@bloomaccounants.nl**  
 **To: j_vanrijn@bloomaccountants.nl**  
 **Subject: PR & Corporate Communications in response to potential forthcoming press releases**  
 **High Importance**  
  
Boss-  
  
Forgive the insubordination and lack of professionalism….but what the fuck?  
  
-Jens  
  
 **From: vvanrijn@chocolatbelle.nl**  
 **To: j_vanrijn@bloomaccountants.nl**  
 **Subject: How can I not ask questions?**  
  
Brother-  
  
I’ve known you to be cryptic in the past—but this takes the cake.  
  
What on earth is going on? And why won’t you answer your phone? I’m worried. And I know how much you dislike it when I worry.  
  
Of course I trust you…but when you write me such melodramatic and out of character emails, what other choice do I have but to be concerned?  
  
Love,  
Veronika  
  
 **From: Jos van Rijn**  
 **Subject: Autoreply: I am out of the office.**  
  
Thank you for your message. I am out of the office until further notice.  
  
Please contact Jens Bendtner (j_bendtner@bloomaccountants.nl) with any media related questions or concerns.  
  
I will respond to all other inquiries as I am able.  
  
Jos van Rijn  



	4. Chapter 4

Though he had not had much time to consider what it would be like to be engaged to Francis Bonnefoy, Jos had correctly predicted that the experience was tiring, annoying, and overwhelming—not to mention overly-indulgent and obscenely luxurious. Only eight hours into the farce and he was already teetering on the edge of exhaustion. Not only had he been whisked away from the train station to endure three hours of poking and prodding at the hands of Bonnefoy’s tailor while listening to Francis rattle off facts and figures about his past, present, and their fake future, but he’d also been left sitting alone in an opulent suite with Francis’ taunting promise ringing in his ears.

_“Oh, my darling. We are going to make such a splash tonight. Just you wait and see. It is going to be so marvelous.”_

Naturally, the bastard had refused to elaborate on his plans for the launch, offering answers to questions in exchange for kisses that he claimed would be excellent private practice for their public show. And just as naturally, Jos had flatly refused to acquiesce to such blackmail—no matter how many times Francis ran his fingers over the back of his neck, promising him everything he wanted to know, if only Jos would be a little more accommodating.

Jos had wanted to accommodate his desire to bury his fist in Bonnefoy’s gut and set the terms of their contract alight, but had settled for smoking cigarette after cigarette on a balcony that overlooked the Paris skyline until he had burned away the memory of Francis’ teasing laughter. Eventually, Francis had given up his fruitless pursuit and abandoned Jos to his privacy, bidding him only to wear the gray Armani and be in the main ballroom by 8pm sharp—as this was an evening he did not wish to miss. Jos had said nothing and shrugged as though the public disclosure of their…alliance..cost him only bored annoyance. As much as he loathed not knowing what was coming next, having no idea how to weather the storm that their announcement was certain to brew, Jos loathed nothing more than the possibility of giving Francis Bonnefoy any kind of satisfaction.

Though he had spent the remaining moments of his freedom teetering on the edge of despairing outrage, Jos did nothing more than he was told, sliding his long legs into the finest suit he owned and pushed a ring with a stone the color of sea green eyes onto his finger.

It weighed heavily, like memory and doubt and obligation.

And now, thanks to his determination to thwart as many of Francis’ desires behind closed doors as was possible, Jos stood in a room full of people who had come to bask in the dubious glory of Francis Bonnefoy with absolutely no idea what the man of the hour had up his sleeve. To his surprise, and relief, Bonnefoy had been too busy with last minute arrangements and glad-handing his biggest shareholders to accost him the moment he walked through the door, dressed to the Francis specified nines. Reveling in the unexpected lack of Bonnefoy, Jos took refuge by one of the many windows, wishing he could better appreciate the glittering beauty of Paris by night as he tried and failed not to think of how much the sight of Bonnefoy in a black suit reminded him of the first time they had met.

Tonight, Bonnefoy wore a shirt of pale blue beneath crisp lapels, but five years ago he had come striding into a meeting of the Amsterdam Business Professionals with such confidence and grace there had been no choice but to give Francis his full attention. Jos had never been one for small talk but when Francis Bonnefoy had cornered him after the luncheon with a gaze that was far too blue as he asked for Jos’ expert opinion on the proposed revisions to the EU tax code…well, he had made an exception. He continued to make exceptions for the rest of the evening, letting Francis ply him with drinks and dinner and more drinks, unwilling to walk away from the best conversation he’d had in longer than he could remember, falling hook-line-and-sinker for the trap of Francis’ wit and the sly sweetness of his smile.

A week later, naked and tangled on the soft rug of a hotel room floor, Francis had kissed his ear and confessed that he had no interest in tax policy but that he had been enamored of the flex of Jos’ long legs and wanted from the first to know how such a rough and wonderful voice would sound saying his name. Jos had told him that he needed to try harder if he wanted to learn such secrets and Francis had laughed and laughed and then his knees had burned for days from the rub of the carpet.

“Mr. Van Rijn?”

Jos swallowed the sharpness of memory with the remainder of his drink, turning to face the low and pleasant voice that had so fortuitously interrupted dangerous reveries of times that were better left bitter and buried.

“Yes?” Jos offered calmly, betraying nothing of the thoughts that plagued him as he discovered that the owner of the solicitous tone was a man of commanding height but with soft features and hair of honeyed flax. Jos had not thought he’d meet many people with eyes more than arresting than Bonnefoy’s sapphire blue, but in the startling and impossible amethyst of this smiling stranger, he was proved wrong.

“I’m Matthew Williams, Francis’ Chief of Staff," the man held out his hand and took a step nearer, his entire demeanor gently assured as he introduced himself. The pieces clicked and realigned in Jos’ mind as he came face to face with the only other soul that knew the truth of his great matter. Jos slid his hand into Williams’ firm shake.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Williams said cordially, before his expression shifted into unexpected concern, “I wanted to see how you were holding up.”

“Well enough, all things considered.” Jos shrugged noncommittally, vemused by the apparent interest in his well-being from the chief representative of Bonnefoy’s interests.  He gestured at the milling guests, resplendent in their finery as they competed for a fraction of Francis’ attention. “They are here for him, not for me.”

Williams followed the path of Jos’ gaze to where Francis stood two feet from a podium, sipping champagne and effusing charm.

“I’m afraid that won’t be true for much longer,” Williams murmured, not unkindly, “Once Francis lets the bomb drop, there won’t be any more hiding in the corner glaring at anyone who dares to approach. I don’t envy you what’s about to happen, which is why I want to help you weather the fallout as much as I am able.”

Taken aback by the strange combination of frankness and courtesy, Jos arched a skeptical eyebrow and wondered what sort of game this man had been instructed to play. He eyed the concerned curve of Williams’ lips and asked carefully, “And why would you wish to do such a thing? Has Bonnefoy tasked you with looking after all of his interests?”

Williams laughed wryly and shook his head. “It is true that Francis’ business is important to me, so this little charade also has to be important to me.” He paused, tempering Jos’ doubts with the quiet honesty of his gaze as he worried his lip between his teeth and straightened his broad shoulders. “And even though I’m going along with it, it doesn’t mean I like it.”

“I see,” Jos said blandly, though he was inclined to trust Williams’ explanation. He frowned as Bonnefoy caught his gaze and blew him an exaggerated kiss across the room, pointing at his watch and smiling falsely. With renewed ire born of Francis’ flirtation, Jos returned his attention to Bonnefoy’s point man, asking coldly, “Tell me, what do you think of his choice to play to role of forced fiance?”

Williams winced, but much to Jos’ reluctant admiration, did not back down or waver. “Viewed under a prudent light, I don’t think he could have found a better match.”

“A prudent light?” Jos scoffed dryly, “You sound like an Austen heroine, Williams.”

“Call me Matthew, please,” Williams insisted with evident amusement. “But Austenesque or not, it is true.” Jos stiffened as Williams raked his eyes up the length of his body, his voice considering and precise, “You’re handsome and know how to command a room, ensuring that Francis won’t dwarf you with his…um, how shall I put this delicately…ah, enhanced ego.” Jos snorted in agreement. “From what I’ve been told, you run a highly successful business, maintain a network of contacts that can vouch for your aptitude and ability, and cultivate enough interests outside of work to move easily in society.”

Williams paused and took a deep breath as Jos tried to process hearing such a litany of his apparent charms for the second time in less than three days. Williams sighed and turned towards the gathering crowd at the front of the room, continuing so quietly Jos had to strain to hear him, “And Francis finds you fascinating. He respects your intelligence and thinks of you as more than enough of a challenge to make this experience tolerable. And when you walked in tonight, he only had eyes for you. So, yes, I think approve of his choice.”

By the time Jos had recovered enough of his incredulity to step forward and demand that Matthew explain how he came to such an erroneous conclusion when all the data he’d been presented had told an entirely different story, the room had gone quiet and Bonnefoy had taken his place behind the podium. Jos trailed after Matthew as they shifted towards the front of the room, drawn just as surely as the rest to Bonnefoy’s magnetism.

Though his jaw remained firm and his smile thin and inexpressive, Jos’ palms were slick and his heart thundered as Francis winked at him, a last private taunt before the fall.

Trapped by the ring on his finger and the ink on a contract, Jos listened numbly as Francis welcomed his guests and thanked everyone for their tireless commitment to the global success of the Bonnefoy brand. His acolytes laughed and clapped at all the right moments, playing precisely in time with Bonnefoy’s conducting. He wondered if he had ever seen anyone who was more at ease wooing a crowd, a man who wore effortless grace and confidence as well as the expert tailoring of his suit.

“I must especially thank my tireless staff for covering for me during my prolonged absence these past months. You have all done a marvelous job steering the Bonnefoy boat through the storms of change, particularly as your captain was lost at sea, trying to find his way.” Bonnefoy said seriously, nodding as he swept his hair over his shoulder. “The loss of Grandmama was difficult to bear and in the chaos, I looked towards my beacon my light, my most important and steadfast person, to guide me home. Without him, I cannot imagine where I would be.”

Jos thought his teeth might crack from the clench of his jaw as he listened to Bonnefoy spill forth such pretty lies, nauseated by the waves of vague sympathy and overt curiosity pouring from the crowd. He couldn’t help but think as he listened to the spinning of a new kind of truth based on so many little lies that Bonnefoy was the most obscenely clever bastard he’d ever met.

He stilled as he watched Francis make a show of seeking him out in the crowd, feeling the moment stretch as surely and slowly as the unfurling of Francis’ arm, beckoning him forward as he murmured dramatically, “So, more than anything else, tonight I wish to thank my love, my darling, my light for being my rock, for being until this moment my most precious secret, and most importantly…for agreeing to be all of these things and more to me for the rest of our lives.”

Everyone stilled into shocked silence and Jos looked only at Bonnefoy so he would not have to feel the weight of two hundred stunned and ravenously interested gazes as their heads turned to see just who it was had warranted all of Francis’ pretty words and heady attention.

“Don’t be shy, darling,” Francis said happily, smiling as wide as the yawn of horror in Jos’ soul, “Come here and let me finally show you to the world!”

With all the enthusiasm of a man going to meet a swift death beneath an even swifter blade, Jos swallowed what remained of his pride and stiffly approached the podium, letting Francis’ gaze guide him forward until he was standing face to face with the man who would call him “darling” in a room full of Parisian elites.

“Everyone,” Francis said without breaking eye contact, hand skating up the curve of back as he pulled Jos nearer, “I want to introduce you to my fiance, Jos van Rijn.”

The crowd gasped and tittered with hushed murmurs while Francis splayed his long fingers over his cheek, the ring pressing cold against the flush of his skin as Francis pushed forward and brought their lips together, kissing him so passionately Jos struggled to hold to his chilled fury. Francis laughed a little into the embrace, tongue wetting his lips just enough to taste but not enough to be lewd, as much of a taunt as everything else he’d ever given.

“Ah, you do taste as good as you look,” Francis whispered, nuzzling his neck and gently turning them away from the prying curiosity of the throng, “And you look marvelous this evening, my darling.”

Jos smiled sourly, “Spare me the flattery, Bonnefoy.”

“Francis, dearest, Francis,” Bonnefoy purred as he rubbed circles down his back, doubtless so the room could admire the sparkle of their awful matching rings, “And flattery though it may be, I assure you it is not idle. You’ve done very well so far.”

“Do I get a treat for behaving?” Jos hissed sarcastically through gritted teeth, though he forced his fingers to lace with Francis’ as they turned and walked away from the podium, inching closer and closer to the frothing masses.

Francis smirked at him and brought their joined hands to his lips, kissing his knuckles as he murmured, “I’d be happy to give you any reward you like, but later, precious, when the day is done and I have you to myself.” Francis dropped his hand in favor of sliding an arm around his waist, holding him uncomfortably close as they were set upon by two well dressed party-goers.

Jos cursed his luck, recognizing both faces from the briefing on all the Bonnefoy board members that Francis had so kindly provided as reading material for the train ride. His brain churned with facts: Bernadette and Bernard Oxenstierna—fortune made in affordable Swedish furniture. Company now run by their only son, Berwald. Bernadette was the power in the family, while Bernard was a quiet man not to be underestimated.

“How good of you to come to this little soiree, Bernadette, Bernard,” Francis said smoothly, fingers splayed beneath his jacket, warming him through his shirt, “I am certain that Grandmama appreciates it as much as I do.”

The old woman cast Francis a withering glare, endearing herself to Jos. “And miss an unexpected engagement announcement? Don’t be ridiculous, Francis.” She turned her shrewd gaze to Jos, holding out a wrinkled hand to be taken, “I’m certain that I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Van Rijn.” Jos shook her hand and that of her husband, wishing that Francis would stop trying to worm his fingers beneath his shirt. Bernadette continued dryly, “But I will be even more certain that I am delighted when I understand better how this lovely surprise came to pass.”

Francis smiled and kissed Jos’ cheek, “What is there to understand, my dear Bernie? We’re in love.”

Jos tamped down a shiver, answering flatly as he did as Francis had instructed and peppered lies with truth, “I can understand your surprise, Mr. and Mrs. Oxenstierna. I, too, was surprised when Francis proposed.” He paused, licking around the distaste of that name in his mouth before he pushed onwards, “But we’ve known each other for many years…”

  
“And when we found each other again several months ago, I finally knew that Jos was the one for me. After Grandmama’s passing, I just couldn’t bear the idea of going through life without making such an important commitment, so I made Jos an offer he couldn’t refuse.” Francis interrupted, carrying the story forward seamlessly, as though they often did things like finish one another’s sentences. Francis sniffed and pressed closer, peering up at Jos with shining eyes, “I only wish that Grandmama was still here to bless our union.”

Jos’ stomach burned. Francis licked his lips.

“Yes, I am sure she would have many things to say about this,” Bernadette muttered, breaking their staring contest. “So, tell me, Jos…what do you do for a living?”

Jos cleared his throat, “I’m an accountant specializing in taxation.”

Francis stroked his cheek with the hand not currently sliding beneath his shirt to tease the small of his back, answering firmly, “He’s far too modest. Jos is the most sought after accountant in Northern Europe. He runs a firm called Bloom Accountants in Amsterdam and is the most competent and reliable numbers man I’ve ever met. I would recommend him to anyone who asked and not just because he’s the man I’m to marry.”

Jos frowned, taken aback by Francis’ apparent sincerity, searching his expression for the usual hints of frivolity and fraud, wary of the softness of Francis’ smile and the honest respect in his gaze.

“Yes, I know the firm,” Bernard said quietly, nodding with approval, “One of your associates did work for us in Stockholm.”

“Ah, I thank you for the business,” Jos said, welcoming a temporary reprieve in such familiar exchanges, “I trust you found our services satisfactory.”

Francis brightened, apparently believing he had lit upon the path to Swedish approval. “In fact, Jos comes from a family of successful entrepreneurs!” Jos stiffened and shot Francis a warning glance, but as always, Francis ignored his wishes and steamed onwards. “His charming younger sister, a marvelous woman—really, you would adore her—-owns a delightful chocolaterie in Antwerp! You must visit the next time you are in Belgium and tell her I sent you!”

Incandescent with rage at the very thought of Bonnefoy being anywhere near his sister, even as passing mention by two aged Swedes, Jos bit his lip and did all that he could not to give up the game entirely and throw Francis through a window.

Covering his wild anger with a thin smile directed at their bemused audience, Jos turned to Francis and pressed his lips against his ear, whispering threateningly, “I need to speak with you right now.”

“Now, my treasure?”

“Right now, darling.”

Francis’ smile dimmed for only a moment as he read the intent in Jos’ eyes and the coiled anger in the hand that cupped his face before he laughed breathlessly and apologized to the Oxenstiernas.

“Bernie and Bernie, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse us for a moment,” Francis murmured playfully, running his hand down Jos’ chest and pressing his palm over the racing of his heart, “Surely you remember the blush of new love.”

Bernadette looked as though she would protest when Francis took his hand and started to lead him towards the coat closet only to soften into another woman entirely when Bernard called after them, “Remember? We’re still in it, boy!”

Francis’ delighted and merry laughter lasted until the moment Jos slammed the door of the tiny room filled with too many ridiculously expensive coats that smelled vaguely of mothballs. Jos hardly knew what he was doing as he pushed Francis against the racks of fur and suede, having forgotten at his own peril how apt Francis was at making him come undone. Francis smiled at him in the dimness and reached for his tie, pulling him so close he could smell cologne and make out the glint of platinum on pale skin.

He dug his fingers into Francis’ shoulders and breathed deeply, distilling his chaotic feelings until there was nothing but chill and certain anger. “I have done as you asked and I will continue to do so for as long as I am contractually bound to you. You can say what you like about me, make me your fool if you must,” Jos pushed two fingers against Francis’ lips to still his pretty excuses, intent on having his say. He crowded against Francis, wishing to cow him into submission. “But you will never say another word about my sister. Not one word more. For you, she does not exist.” He exhaled shakily, “Do you understand?”

Francis nodded, eyes wide and bright, breath rushing out and fast over Jos’ fingers. He tried to pull his hand away only to have Francis run his tongue between the crevice of the two, murmuring dirtily, “Yes, yes, my darling. Anything you wish.”

Jos swallowed and tried to step away, stopped in his retreat by the sharp tug on his tie and Francis’ low taunt, “Though she does exist. So beautifully, having bought me such a lovely husband.”

Jos snarled and slammed Francis against the wall, hating the victorious curve of the lips that parted beneath his own and the tongue that slid into his mouth and tasted all his remembered loathing as they kissed desperately. He tried to stop, tried to tell his hands to abandon Francis’ waist, tried not to arch into the scoring warmth of fingers slipping beneath his shirt and raking up his spine. He tried to stop but Francis was an expert tangle of lips and limbs, ensnaring him and driving him mad with angry, futile desire.

“Oh, yes, this does look familiar, doesn’t it, Bernard?”

“Hmm, yes.”

Startled by the intrusion, Jos dropped Francis as though he were on fire, retreating into the darkest corner as Francis cursed under his breath and then emerged from the pile of crumpled coats. Jos watched and said nothing, loathing his weakness as Francis handed over two wrinkled coats to the inadvertent voyeurs.

“Well, I think that was a rather fortuitous accident,” Francis said merrily once the Oxenstiernas had beat a hasty retreat. He dared to smile at Jos as though nothing out of the ordinary had just transpired. “I dare say that convinced them of our genuine passion, my darling! Two down, eight more to go!”

Jos closed his eyes and prayed for sanity and endurance, pushing away from the wall and dodging the grasp of Francis’ greedy hands as he made for the door.

“Ah, don’t be so angry, my sweet,” Francis cajoled, as he grasped Jos’ wrist between his fingers and commanded his attention with contriteness in his too blue eyes. Jos snarled and tried to wrench away, stilling only when Francis shook his head and softened his touch. “I am sorry. I do truly find your sister wonderfully charming, but if you should wish it, I won’t mention Veronika again.”

“See that you don’t.” Jos said coldly, steeling himself against the obvious softness and invitation in Francis’ apology. He pulled his arm free, deliberately looking anywhere but the red and bitten stain of Francis’ mouth as he walked away from temptation that held nothing but pain and called over his shoulder, “And don’t even think about getting into the bed tonight.”

Francis spluttered, “But there is only the one bed in the suite, wherever do you expect me to sleep?”

Jos smirked cruelly. “The couch. The bathtub. The floor for all I care. Just stay the fuck away from me, Bonnefoy.”

“So cold,” Francis pouted.

For the first time all evening, Jos felt the burden on his shoulders lighten, set free by Francis’ frustration. He smiled and blew a kiss as he walked out of the closet, murmuring “Welcome to marriage, darling.”


	5. Chapter 5

There had been dreams like this over the years, some that were soft—visions of slow touches and lingering embraces—and others that were truer to life, hard and fast and angry fantasies of bitter desire. But he had never had one that was quite so vivid as this dream that lingered between sleep and waking, in which Jos could smell the memory of Francis’ cologne mingled with the hint of smoke, as though in his dream Francis had smoked one of his cigarettes before bed. It was a little strange that in this dream he felt the discomfort of something too heavy on his arm, but there was also something so real and so nice about the feeling of warm thighs parting for the shifting of his knee and the sound of an sleepy and appreciative murmur.   
  
Jos ignored the nascent sense of unease that felt too much like waking in favor of the frisson of lust that unfurled low and hot in his stomach as this false-Francis he held in his arms arched and purred like a great cat, sliding sleep warmed skin over skin everywhere they touched but for the cotton briefs that stretched over the hard swell of his cock. A little voice whispered that it was odd that a fantasy fuck as promising as this would involve something as practical as underwear, but Jos kept his eyes deliberately closed and clung to the vestiges of sleep. He pressed his lips to the slope of a shoulder and let his hand be guided by fingers that fumbled curiously to splay over silk.   
  
The silk felt good between his fingers, slipping like water as he traced the curve of the cock that rocked into his touch, in slow and lazy time with the rub of a firm ass in his lap. Knees clamped down on his leg and dragged him ever nearer, the tingle of nascent sweat slicking the skin that pressed together, too hot and too close for true comfort and his arm still ached from the weight of a heavy head that was now arching up to make way for lips that wanted to rediscover all the places that had once made Francis moan. Jos wondered why he had been so cheated by all his other dreams, to have been denied the taste of salt and the brush of silk against his thighs and the slow and expert writhe of hips in the cradle of his lap making it almost impossible not to open his eyes.    
  
Murmurs and moans threatened to break his ever diminishing hold on sleep, echoing in his ears and telling him it was time to wake up, so he buried his secret noises in the mess of Francis’ hair until the tickle of strands against his chin was too irritating to tolerate. Annoyed, aroused, and teetering on the edge of awake, Jos stole his hand away from the temptation of a silk covered cock and rolled Francis to his back, eyes fluttering open just as he braced his elbows on either side of narrow shoulders and slid between legs that parted for him so readily.   
  
The dream dissolved with the first touch of Francis’ mouth and the arch of his hips, bringing their bodies and lips together in a startling kiss. Jos struggled to keep his eyes open, to blink against the urge to give in and close them once more and ride out the waves of lust and bury his hands in Francis’ hair and his cock in the hot clench of his body and forget all the reasons he had not to do this. It almost worked, he almost fell into the ploy of Francis’ leg wrapping around his waist and the whisper of his name by a voice roughened with sleep and delight, he almost accepted the invitation in the hands that cupped his cock through his briefs and squeezed.  
  
But when his eyes that wanted to fall shut once more lit upon the glint of emerald and platinum on the pillow, reality fell like an iron curtain and saved him from the dangerous mistake he was about to commit. Francis’ expression of happy desire was like a bucket of ice water poured over the burn of his lust. Anger and frustration hissed out like steam as Jos cursed, rolled over and scrambled from the bed, wishing to put at least three feet of mattress between his hands and the vast untouched expanse of Francis’ skin.  
  
“What? Where are you going?” Francis mumbled, blinking in confusion and struggling up from the pillows as Jos stood at the edge of the bed in strained black briefs, breathing heavily and trying not to rock on his heels. The sheets spilled over Francis’ knees as he sat, hair mussed and eyes alight with frustration. “What are you doing all the way over there?” Francis asked petulantly.   
  
Jos glared and crossed his arms over his bare chest, grumbling lowly, “What are you doing in the bed?”   
  
Francis pouted prettily, tilting his head and raking his gaze so hotly over Jos’ skin it nearly burned, kindling the lust he desperately wanted permanently extinguished.  “Oh, I tried the couch for awhile, my darling. But it was so cold and the bed is so big and I thought you wouldn’t even notice if I slipped between the covers and stayed on my own side.”   
  
Francis smirked and started to crawl across the bed, the silk of his boxers shifting over the ripple of his skin. Jos scowled and held his ground and clung to the bitterness he’d always tasted when he remembered Bonnefoy. He didn’t flinch, didn’t abandon his cold and silent accusation even as Francis sidled to the end of the mattress and peered at him through the artful fan of his lashes, licking his lips as warm fingers traced the elastic band of Jos’ shorts.   
  
“I had intended to play the perfect gentleman,” Francis murmured, one long finger sliding down the cut of his hip bone, “And keep my hands and all my wicked wishes to myself.” Jos regretted that his skin shivered and rose to Francis’ touch, swallowing the sigh that threatened to overwhelm all his wisest intentions. Francis hummed and parted his lips over the flat plane of his stomach, “So imagine my delight when you reached for me in the night and I woke to find that my frigid little fiancé had melted so sweetly in the morning.”   
  
At the sight of Bonnefoy’s smug smile sliding carelessly down his stomach, as though he expected that it would come to this all along, Jos snarled and rejected all the temptation of fingers that presumed and lips that lied without qualm.  Flushed with the indignity of sleepy missteps he could not control, he snatched Bonnefoy’s greedy hands from the slope of his thigh and the curve of his cock and pushed him away.   
  
“Do not presume to touch me when we are not in in public, Bonnefoy,” Jos gritted out, gratified by the frustrated narrowing of Francis’ eyes and the dip in his victorious grin.   
  
Francis struggled in his grasp, recovering too quickly for Jos’ comfort as he smiled slyly and purred, “But you touched me first, my darling.”   
  
“I was too asleep to know better,” Jos taunted coolly, dropping Francis’ wrists and turning away, “I assure I would have done no such thing had I been awake and in full control.” He strode towards his suitcase and hoped that Bonnefoy didn’t witness the slight tremble in his legs as he dug through his clothes in search of a t-shirt, determined to be as far away from Francis and his damned silk underwear and obvious arousal as soon as possible.   
  
“Its not very nice to leave something you started unfinished, my sweet,” Francis whispered in his ear, suddenly very close and too warm, draped against his back and rubbing his cock against his hip. Jos sucked in a breath and grasped the hand that splayed over his chest and wrenched it away from his traitorous body that leaned into the touch.   
  
“Stop,” Jos commanded thickly, turning within Francis’ cloying arms and holding the t-shirt between them as though it could ward off the heat that threatened to consume.   
  
Francis blinked consideringly, smile thinning to the point of a frown as he asked, “Of course, if you insist.” Jos glared at him balefully. Francis attempted to cup his cheek with false affection, murmuring softly, “Though I don’t see why you should insist. If we want each other, want this…why should we not have it? Make the best of our little situation?”   
  
Jos closed his eyes and breathed in deeply as he remembered the last time Francis had spoken to him so gently, when he had been young and stupid and on the verge of reckless emotion.  
  
With renewed resolution hardened by the chill of memory, Jos opened his eyes and denied all the warm expectation in Francis’ gaze with the bitter disdain of his laughter. For a brief, still moment, he touched his forehead to Francis’ and let him see all the anger he’d hidden for so long as he murmured coldly, “If you cannot see why I would never have you, then perhaps you should try and remember the countless reasons I have to want nothing to do with you, Bonnefoy.”   
  
And as Francis blinked in stunned confusion, Jos broke free from his hold and strode from the room, leaving Francis as alone and unsatisfied as he’d once been all those years ago.


	6. Chapter 6

The self-righteous thrill of one-upping Francis Bonnefoy lasted Jos for exactly forty-five seconds before he realized that in his stiff-upper lip haste to leave Bonnefoy to stew in his frustration, Jos was now standing in the hallway of Paris’ finest hotel wearing nothing but a pair of black briefs. Cursing his utter lack of sense when it came to dealing with Bonnefoy, he quickly donned the t-shirt he’d used as barrier to ward off the smooth warmth of Francis’ chest and wished for a cigarette as he evaluated his limited and poor options.   
  
He had not brought a key, so letting himself back in the room wasn’t a possibility. Knocking and begging admission from Bonnefoy was out of the question. He didn’t think he could stand the sight of that smug grin lording over his failure nor the slim chance that Francis would be cloying and contrite, luring him in with false assurances. Even if Bonnefoy did decide to be sorry for his past choices, there was no way he could come to such a conclusion in less than two minutes.   
  
Logic, and nothing else, dictated that Bonnefoy required at least an hour to reflect upon that which had been a thorn in Jos’ side for years.   
  
With no phone, no smokes, no key, and no pants, Jos stood in the shadows of the hallway and contemplated making his way to the lobby to request another card-key. He cringed when he thought of the paparazzi that were doubtless gathered beyond the hotel doors capturing an image of him in his skivvies that would be shared with the world. He could already imagine the horrors that awaited him in his inbox—a screed from Veronika on proper public attire was the last thing he wanted.   
  
Other than this fake engagement, Jos thought ruefully, kicking his heel against the door to Bonnefoy’s obscenely luxurious suite and despairing of how he was going to survive Francis for eight more board members. Resigning himself once more to his fate, Jos filed away thoughts of coat closets and king-sized beds as erroneous data sets, and had just begun composing an email of underwear-explanation to his sister when another door opened.   
  
Jos tried to look casual as Williams stepped into the hallway, barefoot and bare chested with wet hair that curled around his cheeks and expression of amused surprise that curved the kind smile Jos remembered into a wry smirk.   
  
“Trouble in paradise?” Williams asked, as Jos crossed his arms over his chest and endured the humiliation of being eyed from head to toe as Bonnefoy’s lackey bent to pick-up the free copy Le Monde. He straightened, clearly trying to contain his laughter. “So, which one of you is in the dog house?”   
  
Jos scowled and shifted uncomfortably against the wall. “I assure you that everything is Francis’ fault.”   
  
Williams laughed, “That is usually the case, yes.” He pushed a wet strand of hair behind his ear and looked up and down the long hallway before stepping aside and gesturing towards his room, still smiling, “Well, you had better come in. I shudder to think what would happen if some lucky shutterbug caught Francis Bonnefoy’s new fiance with another man making time in a darkened hallway wearing nothing but his underwear. Quelle horreur!”   
  
“Very funny, Williams,” Jos grumbled darkly, though he hastened to take the offered escape and made his way towards away from Francis and towards relative safety.  
  
“Matthew,” Williams said pleasantly, breezing past Jos as he stood awkwardly in the living room of a slightly less grand suite. “And, yes, I am very funny. It is part of the job description—must be able to react to all chaos caused by Francis with calm humor and equanimity.”   
  
Jos snorted, reluctantly amused. “No wonder he hired a Canadian.”   
  
“Now who’s being funny?” Matthew retorted, smiling gently over his shoulder as he rifled through a suitcase. “Here, these should fit you well enough,” he said, tossing a pair of long pajama pants at Jos before sliding a on a shirt and running his fingers through his flaxen hair. “Now that you’ve got pants, anything else you want that I might be able to help with?”   
  
Relieved to no longer be so close to naked, Jos slumped on the couch and sighed tiredly, “I want to not be engaged to the most notorious bastard in Paris.”  
  
“Fraid I can’t do much about that, other than offer my sympathies,” Matthew said wryly, startling Jos with the warmth and strength of his fingers when he squeezed Jos’ shoulder and peered down at him with concerned eyes, “And assure you that from my experience, even though Francis can be selfish and careless and too clever for his own good, there is a warm and passionate heart beneath all the veneer.”   
  
Jos deliberately did not think of how he, too, had once believed such things of Bonnefoy. He favored Matthew with an ill look. “I don’t want such assurances.” Matthew bit his lip and shifted on his heels. Jos sighed again, smiling faintly, “But I wouldn’t turn down a cup of coffee, a computer, and a smoke.”   
  
“Well, I was just on my way out to get the first one and you are more than welcome to use my iPad,” Matthew said sweetly as he slid on a pair of shoes and pointed at the iPad resting on the desk, “But if you even think of smoking in my room, I’ll be forced to introduce to you all the other reasons Francis keeps me around.”   
  
Jos laughed and rolled his eyes, mood lightening when he pretended to cower in fear of Matthew’s attempt at intimidation, “Understood. I’ll settle for caffeine, communication with the outside work, and lack of Bonnefoy.”   
  
“You may change your mind about the outside world,” Matthew said, making for the door, “You and Francis made some serious waves last night.” He shook his head as Jos reached for the tablet, “But I’ll leave you to it. Email me if you suddenly get a craving for something a little stronger than milk in your coffee.”   
  
“You’re too kind,” Jos snarked, already settling in on the couch, ready to be back in Amsterdam with his spreadsheets and far, far away from Francis beneath the sheets.   
  
“It’s my job!” Matthew sing-songed as the door slammed and Jos was left alone, in another man’s hotel room, wearing another man’s clothes, with another man’s iPad and yet another man’s ring on his finger, staring at his picture on the front page of the newspaper.   
  
He really, really, wanted that cigarette.   
  
  
**From:[j_kohler@bloomaccounants.nl](mailto:j_bendtner@bloomaccounants.nl)**  
 **To:[j_vanrijn@bloomaccountants.nl](mailto:j_vanrijn@bloomaccountants.nl)**  
 **Subject: You have lost your mind**  
 **High Importance**  
  
 _Boss-_  
  
 _Note that I did not make that subject line a question._  
  
 _I’d wondered what the hell was going on when you sent me that first message and my curiosity was more than piqued when my Blackberry started buzzing incessantly at 10:02pm last night, but nothing—-not even ten years of dealing with Eirik—-prepared me for the surprise that everyone’s favorite workaholic and anti-socialite intended to hitch his wagon to a purebred prick like Francis Bonnefoy._  
  
 _I’d ask you what the fuck you were thinking, but since you won’t tell me (and since you won’t pick up your phone), I’m just going to go ahead and inform you that unless you want me to walk off the job, I am will be requiring a substantial raise as soon as you grace us with your presence once more._  
  
 _Do you have any idea of how many calls, texts, emails I’ve fielded in the less than twelve hours since you decided to make everyone in the world (with the exception of your colleagues, friends, and family, you asshole!) aware of your upcoming nuptials? Well, I know how much you like data—so I am collecting stats and you’re going owe me a beer for every single one next time we hang out._  
  
 _Possibly TWO beers for each, since you’re not just costing me my weekend and my sanity. They’ve started calling on the home phone and Norge is not exactly happy that his Sunday morning beauty rest is being interrupted. And you know him well enough to know what I’m not going to be getting as long as he’s in a snit about his routine being disrupted._  
  
 _Better start stocking up on the Carlsberg, Boss. The phone’s ringing again._  
  
 _-Jens_  
  
 _ps—What the hell ARE you thinking?_   
  
**From: j_bendtner@bloomaccounants.nl**  
 **To: j_vanrijn@bloomaccountants.nl**  
 **Subject: One last thing….**  
 **High Importance**  
  
 _There is no amount of beer in the world that will get me to deal with Veronika._  
  
 _She’s going to kill you, Boss._  
  
 _-Jens_  
  
 **From: j_vanrijn@bloomaccountants.nl**  
 **To: j_bendtner@bloomaccounants.nl**  
 **Subject: Keep careful records**   
  
_And I will pay my debt to you in full._  
  
 _Should I survive Veronika and should you survive Eirik—I can assure you that we can get as drunk as is appropriate for two…married…men._  
  
 _Thank you for handling these matters in my absence._  
  
 _-JvR_  
  
Jos groaned and turned off the iPad, unable to endure the thought of replying the 200 additional emails that beckoned to him with subjects lines that were all a variation on the theme of _**“What!?!**_ ” Co-workers expressing disbelief, distant relatives suddenly crawling out of the woodwork at the thought of a connection to the Bonnefoy fortune, reporters who apparently could not follow simple directions, and a handful of missives from the few close friends he kept—all expressing varying degrees of horror, curiosity, hesitant congratulations, and concern. He was thankful only that the time difference between New York and Paris had apparently spared him Veronika’s legitimate fury and worry for another few hours at least.   
  
And though he knew there was no avoiding that firestorm for long, Jos decided that he would say nothing at all to the clamoring hordes and concerned few, and trust in Bonnefoy’s skillful manipulation of the media fill the voice of his silence. The less he said now, Jos thought, the less he might have to explain when he was finally free to sink the ring around his finger into the bottom of the Seine.   
  
Jos closed his eyes and started calculating how much it was going to cost him to convince his sister that he had no in fact taken a swan dive off the deep end. Doubtless, it was going to be far more expensive than Jens’ beer bribery, because Veronika’s memory was almost as good as his and his little sister had annoying protective streak a mile wide when it came to matters of what she believed were the heart.   
  
“From the look on your face, I’m wondering if I should have gone for the Irish coffee after all,” Matthew said, startling Jos from his troubling sibling reverie as he handed over a cup of beautiful, black, liquid. “Especially since Francis has been texting me non-stop looking for you.”   
  
Jos groaned and rubbed his hand over his face as he sat up and accepted both his coffee and his marching orders, wondering what had happened to his life that he would have preferred to spend all morning in sweatpants that were covered in little maple leaves without smokes and without a shower, rather than go back to Bonnefoy. He would have said his day would have been better if he’d just stayed in bed, but considered how the morning in bed had begun….well, some things were better left unsaid.   
  
“No need to rush,” Matthew said with a conspiratorial wink as he crossed to the desk and collected his iPad, “I didn’t tell him where to find you!”   
  
“Why not?” Jos asked with wary appreciation, sipping his coffee and watching Matthew fix his hair in the mirror.   
  
Matthew’s reflection smirked faintly at him, “It’s good for Francis to have to sit and stew on occasion.” He sighed and abandoned taming his hair into submission. Jos felt a strange compunction to slide his fingers into the curls and see if they felt as soft as they looked. Matthew smiled and shook his head, “Besides, you look as though you could use a little longer reprieve from Hurricane Francis.”  
  
Jos raised his coffee in mock salute and nodded in genuine thanks, drinking deeply and counting himself very fortunate to have discovered an unexpected ally.   
  
“Well, I need to run. Francis needs me to collect his itinerary from our Paris office,” Matthew explained as he slid a jacket over his broad shoulders and smiled once more at Jos, “But stay as long as you like, enjoy your coffee, and don’t worry about Francis. He’ll wait.”   
  
Surprised that Matthew was leaving so soon once again, Jos looked at the cup in his hand and murmured lowly, “You didn’t have to come back here just to bring me coffee.”   
  
“I wanted to,” Matthew mumbled. Jos stared, but Matthew turned his face away so Jos could barely make out the pretty stain of pink on his cheeks before he hurried from the room with a mumbled farewell and good luck, leaving Jos alone with mediocre coffee and more questions than answers.   
  
An hour later, when all the coffee was gone and the TV had proved too dangerous for watching (honestly, Jos hadn’t realized quite how famous Bonnefoy was in his native city), and Jos wanted nothing more than the sweet relief of nicotine, he abandoned the relative safety of Matthew’s hotel room and went once more into the Bonnefoy breach. Looking down the hallway to make sure no one was waiting to catch an opportune photo of the future Mr. Bonnefoy in maple-leaf pajama pants, Jos cursed his fortune and stalked two doors down, rapping sharply and steeling his nerves against anything Francis could throw at him.   
  
He was, however, as unprepared to walk into a hotel room filled from wall to wall with resplendent and opulent flowers as Jens had been unprepared for the deluge of interest in Jos’ love life. Jos blinked and tried to remember when he had walked out of Matthew’s room and into the flower market at Aalsmeer, running his fingers over the petals of one rose out of hundreds just to be certain that this was reality and not delusion brought on by nicotine withdrawal.   
  
“Finally!” Bonnefoy said, emerging from behind two enormous vases of lilies and hydrangeas, “I had begun to despair that you had forsaken me forever, my Dutch prince.”   
  
“That would have been the smart choice,” Jos taunted on autopilot, still too stunned by the sheer volume and variety of flowers that were apparently available on a Sunday morning within an hours notice. He glared at Francis through the rainbow blossoms, gesturing sharply, “What the hell is all of this?”   
  
Francis sauntered closer, plucking a single orange tulip from the multitude, smiling softly as he held it before Jos’ confused skepticism and murmured, “I believe flowers are custom when making amends to a beloved.”   
  
“Its obscene,” Jos snatched the flower from Francis’ delicate touch and scoffed, “And I am not your beloved.”   
  
Francis hummed, smiling slightly as he stroked the petals of a orchid, “Perhaps not, but I still wish to make amends.” Jos glared warningly as Francis tried to take a step closer, gratified when Francis pursed his lips and held his hands up in surrender. “I made many mistakes when I was young. I am sorry if I hurt you. I had not realized that it meant so much to you.”   
  
Jos flushed and cleared his throat, denials rushing over his tongue, “It didn’t.” Francis arched an eyebrow and Jos pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing noisily, “Fine. It did matter. Then. You made promises you did not keep.”   
  
“I did too much of that, once upon a time,” Francis said plainly, startling Jos with the bare honesty of his confession, “Before I knew better than to promise anyone anything.” This time Jos accepted the orchid Francis wished to give, watching the corners of his lips turn upwards as their fingers brushed. “And so here we are. Two unpromised gentlemen now falsely promised to one another.”   
  
“Yes, here we are,” Jos said slowly, lost in the forest of flowers and Francis’ frankness.   
  
“Do you know, my darling,” Francis said in that sweet tone that always felt slick in his ears, “That when I found myself with this little conundrum, I knew I would need a fiance who was handsome, successful, and intelligent, but I admit that I harbored hopes that whoever ran this endurance race with me might come to enjoy the games we played to win my future.”   
  
Jos frowned, fingers curling nervously around the stems of his flowers. “And you thought I would want to be your partner in crime?”   
  
“I confess that I did, my sweet,” Francis said warmly, gaze lowering as he crept closer and closer, gathering blossoms in his hands as Jos swallowed his apprehension and stood his ground. “I remembered how we used to plot and plan. Even after our liaison had ended, I remember watching you command meetings of run by people twice your age and bending them to your will. And I thought to myself, ah, Francis…here is a man who is cut from the same surly star.”   
  
“What are you implying?” Jos snapped impatiently, disliking the flush of warmth spreading over his cheeks and the way his heart beat faster with each calculated step Francis took, the way his traitorous body wished to lean into the span of Francis’ arms.   
  
Francis held out his haphazard bouquet and speared him with the eyes as blue as a summer sea. “I am imploring you to work with me and not against me, my darling. While you have been right to be angry, right to be upset with your profligate and unkind Francis….but just imagine what we could do together.” Jos arched an eyebrow, taking the offering with begrudging curiosity. Francis smiled and bent to smell the blossoms that Jos now held. “Think of the schemes we could weave if we worked as one.” And when he looked up from between a spray of roses and tulips, Jos knew he was going in for the kill. “Think of how much faster we could win hearts and minds if we were to pool our considerable charm and wit to conquer the rest of the board.”   
  
Jos closed his eyes and considered, though he knew he had lost the campaign in his first glimpse of honest contriteness. He could not deny the logic of Bonnefoy’s argument, no matter how flowery his persuasion may have been—if he set aside his bitterness in favor of collusion, he had no reason to doubt that they would not make a powerful duo. He thought of Amsterdam and his company and all the people who were waiting for his explanation and for his return, adding up all the numbers and coming to a figure that was worth far more than embittered memories.   
  
“Fine,” Jos whispered, opening his eyes and committing to this new course of action. He cleared his throat. “Fine. I’ll work with you.” Francis beamed and stepped closer only to be thwarted by a floral barrier. Jos smirked, “But as a partner. Not some lackey that you expect to dance like a trained monkey when you snap your fingers.”   
  
“Yes, of course, my exacting darling,” Francis answered happily, “Just as you say, we’ll be in full cahoots from this point forward. Ah, we shall have so much fun together, if you’ll allow it.”   
  
“I am not here for your entertainment.”   
  
“Pity,” Francis mused, voice going hot and thick, “I wouldn’t mind letting you bend me to your wicked will.”  
  
Jos narrowed his eyes and clung to his flowers, “Don’t push your luck, Bonnefoy.”   
  
Francis sighed dramatically, “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Jos stared with obvious disdain until Francis shrugged his shoulders and smiled brightly once more, as he licked his lips. “But now that we’ve taken care of such pressing concerns, I’m afraid I have one last matter that must be addressed”  
  
“Yes?” Jos said impatiently, ready to move on from this scene to one that involved him alone with a cigarette.   
  
Francis raked his gaze up his body, shaking his head as he murmured, “What on earth are you wearing? Where did you get such ugly pants?”   
  
Jos rolled his eyes and pushed past Francis, deliberately whacking him with his flowers as he muttered, “Williams was nice enough to loan them to me in my time of need.”   
  
He stilled as Francis’ fingers circled his wrist, pulling him against Francis’ chest so he could better be subjected to the ludicrous tease whispered in his ear, “I am not sure I like the idea of you getting into another man’s pants, my darling.”   
  
“Oh?” Jos smirked, emboldened by the opportunity to return even a fraction of Bonnefoy’s endless tease as he rolled his hips a little and lowered his voice, “And would you like to take me out of them?”   
  
“Most assuredly, my sweet,” Francis answered hotly, kissing his ear, “I would be happy to divest you of any and all pants.”   
  
Jos scoffed and jabbed his elbow into the softness of Francis’s side, laughing as he yelped and jumped away, rubbing his stomach while Jos smiled and smelled his flowers.   
  
“Thank you for the flowers, Francis,” he drawled, spirits rising as Bonnefoys’ smile fell, “But when it comes to getting in and out of men’s pants, I don’t need your help.”

  
“So cold, my darling,” Francis pouted.   
  
“Just being honest,” Jos said sweetly, “Since we’re partners who share everything now!”  
  
With one last appreciative look at Francis’ delicious disappointment, Jos tucked his flowers under his arm and hoped that he could find his smokes somewhere in the foliage of his Fiancé’s folly.


	7. Chapter 7

Vienna, Austria  
  
Jos pretended to admire the painting on the wall, yet another of what he had been told was a fine example of late rococo painting, and decided that if having a preference for van Ruisdael made him predictable and Dutch, the quiet throngs of well heeled attendees would just have to forgive him. Idly, as he laced his fingers behind his back and gazed at the bucolic scene, he wondered if such frippery was to Bonnefoy’s taste. Despite the easing of tensions in the wake of what he liked to call the “Flower Arrangement,” when Jos considered how much money Bonnefoy was prepared to spend at the evening’s auction, it still gave him a vicious thrill to think of something Francis loathed hanging on the walls of his palatial Parisian home.   
  
With a vision of Francis’ best pinched frown of disdain warming his heart, Jos looked over his shoulder to seek out his pretend paramour, pleased to find that Francis was already laying the groundwork for their first shared scheme, effortlessly charming the regal woman they had come to ensnare in the trap of false love. Bonnefoy smiled at him, winking surreptitiously and raising his crystal glass in a secret toast as he slid his arm around their target’s waist and led her away with an expression of rapt attention. Jos smirked when Francis turned to him with one last sly grin and disappeared around the corner. Reluctantly, with no more Bonnefoy to observe, Jos returned his wandering gaze to the artwork.  
  
“Must be a good plan you two have cooked up,” a now familiar voice murmured in his ear as a strong hand clasped his shoulder in friendly greeting.   
  
Glad for a disruption of his amateur art appreciation, Jos accepted the glass of champagne Matthew offered. “What makes you say that?” Jos questioned quietly, curious as to what their constant companion had to say.   
  
Matthew smiled knowingly, leaning in closer so as to avoid the prying eyes and eager ears that seemed to follow Francis wherever he went. “You and Francis are both smiling like you know the punchline to a really great joke that no one else knows.” He laughed and clinked their glasses together in a toast, “So I can only assume that you’ve put your heads together and come up with a very good plan to fool a very kind woman into believing your story.” Jos smiled faintly and touched their glasses together once more, giving credit where credit was due. Matthew shivered playfully, “Somehow I don’t think the world is prepared for the Franco-Dutch alliance.”   
  
“Ah, the world can go to hell,” Jos said dryly as they abandoned the art in favor of the cool air of the balcony overlooking the wide avenues of Vienna.   
  
Matthew chuckled and plucked the cigarette from Jos’ fingers, shaking his head and pointing at the no smoking sign. “And Mrs. Maria Theresa Edelstein? Is she also to go to the hell of your nefarious design?”   
  
Jos frowned and mourned the loss of his smokes, wondering how someone with such a keen mind could also be such a boy scout. “Somehow, I think she will survive being subjected to the company of a handsome man who pretends as though he is deeply interested in her opinions on late eighteenth century art.”   
  
Matthew looked away, voice teasing, “I won’t tell Francis that you think he’s handsome.”   
  
“I do not believe Bonnefoy needs me to tell him that he possesses a certain appeal,” Jos scoffed and leaned on the marble railing, gaze searching through the gallery windows for blond hair and an expensive suit draped on a body that wore everything and nothing with confidence.   
  
“I suppose not,” Matthew admitted, still staring out while Jos looked in, “But he would probably like to hear it regardless.” He turned his face just enough to smile at Jos’ open skepticism, “After all, don’t we all wish to be found attractive, interesting, beguiling?”   
  
“Well, I certainly hope that is true for Mrs. Edelstein.” Jos cleared his throat and tried to steer the conversation in a less unsettling direction—a direction that did not remind him of how Francis’ whispered, ‘My darling, how will anyone be able to appreciate the art when you are in the room,’ burned in his chest for all that he knew it was a cheap tease from a spendthrift man.   
  
Matthew drummed his fingers on the marble and hummed consideringly, smile playful when he finally turned away from Vienna and towards Jos, “Oh, so flattery is a key tactic in bringing the formidable Maria-Theresa to a certain point of view regarding our matter of great importance?”   
  
“That and a cleverly timed bidding war,” Jos answered quietly, leaning in nearer to let Williams in on yet another secret. Jos could not see why he shouldn’t know the scheme he and Bonnefoy had concocted over coffee and croissant that morning—why he should not know this move when he already held a strong hand in their shared game. From the corner of his eye he could see Matthew’s curiosity, restrained but present. Jos titled his head towards the milling art connoisseurs and glitterati, all waiting for the auctioneer’s call to silent battle. “Bonnefoy assures me that Mrs. Edelstein is a great patron of the arts. She prides herself on exacting taste in all things fine and beautiful.  Francis will attempt to charm her into revealing which work of art she wishes to win, and I will subsequently use this information and Francis’ financing to outbid her.”   
  
“And then Francis will implore you as his darling fiance to consider gifting the painting to his despondent board member, thus winning her good will and approbation for your upcoming nuptials?” Matthew asked dryly, both eyebrows slowly creeping under the honeyed curls that swept across his forehead in the late evening breeze.  
  
Jos smirked and ran his tongue over his teeth, wishing he could smoke while he schemed, “Either that or she will be so overcome by the exquisite and rarefied taste of Francis’ intended, so similar to her own refined aesthetics, that she will give her blessing without further thought.”   
  
“You’ve got it all figured out,” Matthew said softly, fidgeting with his tie as he gazed into the distance, “Francis was definitely fortunate in his choice of fake husband.”   
  
“You’re too kind,” Jos answered tartly, smiling a little around the edges of his sharp retort.   
  
In the inches where their shoulders met, Jos felt Matthew’s sudden tension, the sharp intake of breath as the quiet of the balcony was interrupted by the opening of another door. “Speak of the devil, here comes Francis. And it looks like he is on a mission.”  
  
Jos felt his pulse quicken when Francis stepped through the door, backlit by the soft glow of the gallery as he peered into the evening light and smiled strangely when he found whom he sought.Tonight Francis wore gray and a shirt of pale blue that made him appear somehow softer, gentler, though Jos knew better than to believe he was anything more than a wolf in sheep’s clothing.   
  
“Ah, don’t you two look thick as thieves,” Francis said smoothly, sailing across the balcony and sliding his arm around Jos’ waist and smiling tightly as Matthew pushed away from the railing to leave a chill where they had once touched. Francis’ fingers stroked his hip bone, commanding his attention. “But I suppose I am glad I found both of you in the same place as it saves me the effort of going on another scouting mission when our time is short.”  
  
Jos frowned, “Were you successful with the Lady Edelstein?”  
  
Francis sighed and dropped his hold, “The old woman is as tight lipped as a priest after confessional.” Without warning or explanation, Francis tugged at his jacket and started pulling his tie loose, murmuring, “But do not worry, fate has delivered us a very fortunate Plan B.”   
  
Jos slapped Francis’ wandering hands, “And this plan somehow involves taking off my clothing?”   
  
“Well, not all of it, my darling,” Francis chortled, divesting himself of his own jacket and unbuttoning the collar of his shirt, “That would just be unseemly.”   
  
“Ah, I’m going to go back inside,” Matthew said hurriedly, already backing away from the scene.   
  
“Good, good,” Francis answered thoughtlessly, apparently more interested in getting his fingers beneath Jos’ shirt and pulling it from his pants—much to Jos’ increasing dismay. Francis paused in his war against propriety and called out to his put upon employee, “Oh, Matthew, be a dear and do keep Mrs. Edelstein company. And give Roderich and Elizaveta my apologies for departing so rudely. Tell them that I simply could not be away from my fiance for a moment longer.”   
  
“Oh God,” Matthew said in a tone that did nothing to quell Jos’ heightened anxiety. “Those two are here? Yes, I am definitely going inside right now.” Jos wanted to catch his gaze, to read some hope and assurance in his kind eyes, but Matthew was already gone and he was alone with Francis and his wandering hands.   
  
“Stop and explain yourself,” Jos gritted out, catching Francis’ wrists against his chest and pushing him against the marbled wall as he tried not to step on their puddled jackets that had been so callously tossed to the ground.   
  
Francis tugged him close, pressing the cold tip of his nose against his cheek as he whispered hurriedly, “Roderich Edelstein, Maria Theresa’ oldest son and advisor, is unexpectedly here with his wife, Elizaveta. He has his mother’s ear in all things, so if I cannot get what I need from her for our plan to work, we must simply change course and bait another trap.”   
  
Confused but willing to listen, Jos released Francis’ hands, which immediately fell to his waist and pulled him so close the tangle of their bodies could be nothing but indecent. Jos swallowed the sigh that always threatened at such proximity. “And obviously you believe you know this Roderich well enough to know what would tempt him into our favor?”   
  
Francis licked the curve of his jaw and murmured hotly, “You could say that I know both of them intimately.”   
  
“Both of them?” Jos blinked and waited for his powers of reasoning to catch up with the rushing heat that followed in the wake of Francis’ touch. “The husband and the wife?”   
  
Francis laughed lowly and slid his knee between Jos’ legs and dragged upwards. “Profligate and promiscuous, my darling. Do try to remember.”   
  
“Oh, my apologies,” Jos groused darkly, shivering from the evening breeze and the brush of fingers down the front of his pants.   
  
“You are forgive, my treasure,” Francis said softly, “And so am I, as this once my very bad behavior has landed us in good fortune. For I know what it is that helps make the Edelstein marriage so very happy.”   
  
“I am not going to like this, am I?” Jos asked, even as he splayed his hands on Francis’ waist and dipped his head to meet the warm and sweet curve of a willing and waiting to be kissed throat.   
  
“Perhaps not,” Francis breathed against Jos’ lips, “But if you can trust me just a little, I think you may enjoy it.”   
  
Francis was too close and too warm and too hard and fast against his chest and between the span of his arms and Jos knew that his lips were going to close the distance that separated a kiss even before he’d nodded shortly and muttered, “Alright.”  
  
“Wonderful,” Francis said as he kissed Jos’ cheeks and the clench of his jaw, “And feel free to be as loud as you wish, my darling. Elizaveta loves a good show.”   
  
Jos had no time to protest such ridiculous things, no words of refusal to give as Francis’ tongue slipped between his dismayed lips and stole both logic and reserve, kissing him in a way that was meant for bedrooms and not balconies. Jos moaned into the assault and fought back as he could, tangling one hand in Francis’ too perfect hair, ruining it between his fingers as Francis sought to ruin the pale skin of his throat, sucking and biting and marking that which was not his to own. He dragged Francis up, up, so he could see the lust in darkened sky blue eyes and lick the shameless smirk that drove him mad even when he wasn’t in the midst of an illicit liaison meant as nothing more than bait.   
  
He wondered if there were prying eyes on them at this very moment, eager gazes watching the progress of Francis’ red mouth down the slope of his neck and along the line of his collarbones. He wondered if wicked ears listened for the sighs he wrenched from Francis’ smile with each rock of his hips into the cock that rubbed wantonly against his thigh. He wondered how far they would go, how many buttons of his shirt would come undone, how many moans Francis would spill into the night and how much longer he would care who was watching if Francis kept pulling his bottom lip between his teeth and running his fingers over the front of his pants.   
  
Jos groaned as Francis bit his shoulder, wetting the cotton of his shirt and squeezed his cock through his pants. Through the haze of desire that could not be faked, he imagine he heard a delighted intake of breath and the sound of feet shuffling closer. But when Francis kissed him, a long, soft, lingering press of lips to lips that had his eyes and ears closed to anything except the feeling of Bonnefoy’s embrace, he neglected to care for their audience as Francis sank gracefully to his knees and nuzzled his cheek against his cock. He stroked shaking fingers through the mess he’d made of Francis’ hair, licked his lips, and almost considered asking Bonnefoy to touch him, to taste him, to put that silver tongue to better use when beguiling blue eyes looked at him with such hot, open, wanting.   
  
Francis kissed the buckle of his belt, eyes fluttering shut as he took a deep breath and returned Jos to the farce that was their current reality.   
  
“Are you going to stand there all evening, Elizaveta, without introducing yourself?”   
Jos coughed and tried to look nonplussed as a beautiful woman emerged from the shadows, followed by an elegant man with a haughty look, long fingers draped possessively over the woman’s waist, creeping dangerously near to the hiked hem of her dress.   
  
“I was hoping for an invitation,” The woman smiled slyly and shook her long hair over her shoulders, holding out a gloved hand as Francis stood from his crouch and kissed her knuckles.   
  
“I am afraid that an introduction is all you shall get, my darling girl,” Francis murmured as he dropped her hand and melted into the curve of Jos’ side, stroking his finger over the mark he’d left just beneath his jaw. Jos followed his gaze to the man he assumed to be Roderich Edelstein, handsome and perfectly composed but for a collar stained pink by his wife’s eager lips. “The same goes for you, Roderich. You may look, but not touch.”   
  
“How rare of you to be so stingy, Bonnefoy,” Roderich answered smartly, holding out his hand to Jos, “But I suppose I can hardly blame you.” Jos put his hand into Roderich’s and quelled the urge to snap at Francis’ to cease and desist with the distracting kisses to his ear. “Roderich Edelstein. And my wife, Elizaveta.”  
  
“Jos van Rijn.” Jos met matching gazes of subtle surprise and open appreciation, wondering when he became the kind of man who stand before another couple with a hard cock and an even, unflinching stare. “I’m pleased to meet any friends of Francis’.”   
  
Elizaveta laughed and shook his hand as well, gloved thumb tracing over his palm as they parted, “I am sorry that we crashed your rendezvous. We had intended to simply say hello and meet the man who managed to tame Bonnefoy for ourselves. It was entirely accidental that we abandoned the art to find a better show entirely.”  
  
“Not at all,” Jos offered smoothly, grasping her hand once more to kiss her fingers as Francis’ had done, closing the distance that separated their party as he felt Francis press his victorious and not at all accidental smirk into his cheek. “As I said, any friends of my fiance are friends of mine as well.”   
  
Roderich sidled against his wife’s side and kissed her hair, “You are very accommodating, Van Rijn. I trust you do not handle your business so casually. I’ve been considering a new accountant for Mother’s personal affairs since the announcement.”   
  
“No, Jos is quite the terror in the boardroom,” Francis interjected blithely, “Among other places.”  
  
“Shackled to this idiot,”Jos rolled his eyes and pushed Francis’ away, smirking at the Edelstein’s amused interest in their little act, “I am sure you can see why I’ve learned to be accommodating.”   
  
Elizaveta laughed brightly, winking as she touched a hand to the swell of her breasts, “Oh, I like him, Francis!   
  
“As do I, darling,” Francis answered, gripping Jos’ chin between his fingers and kissing him deeply. Jos smirked and bit his tongue until Francis relinquished his attempt at subjugation. Francis smiled and brushed his finger over Jos’ unrepentant bottom lip, “Yes, yes, I like him very much.”   
  
Jos flushed and looked away, seeking refuge in Edelstein’s outstanding question. “I’d be happy to take a meeting to discuss your mother’s affairs when we are next in Vienna.”   
  
“I would appreciate that,” Roderich said, pushing his glasses up the fine bridge of his nose and smiling faintly.   
  
“Be sure that it is all you intend to appreciate,” Francis warned playfully, leaning heavily against Jos’ side and digging his thumb into the mark on his throat.   
  
“You are a changed man, Bonnefoy,” Roderich answered coldly, before taking Elizaveta’s elbow and nodding towards the gallery, “But I suppose we should get back to Mother before she buys out the entire auction.”  
  
“It was so nice to meet you, Jos. I do hope we have the chance to see one another again very soon.” Elizaveta leaned forward and kissed his cheek, smelling of perfume and still warm with desire.   
  
Made bold by the constant tease of Francis’ fingers beneath his shirt and the lingering thickness of lust in his veins, Jos let his lips brush the corner of her pretty mouth as he murmured, “Whether for business or pleasure, I look forward to it, Mrs. Edelstein.”   
  
Elizaveta laughed, rich and lush and shameless, while Francis gasped in mock horror and Roderich looked on with an expression of calculated amusement. He permitted her fleeting kiss that tasted of champagne and lipstick and victory, tasting even still as she sauntered inside, happy laughter still echoing in the night.   
  
“Well,” Roderich mused as he watched his wife disappear into the halls of the gallery, “I don’t know what game you are playing, Bonnefoy, but you and Van Rijn play it well enough to have my vote of confidence.” He stepped forward, very nearly crowding into what little space remained between his body and Francis’, smirking as he said, “And I shall save you the cost of an original Watteau and simply inform Mother that your relationship is as genuine as all the family silver.”   
  
“How generous of you, Roderich,” Francis purred, nails raking down Jos’ back in an expression of silent and smug delight.  
  
“Consider it a wedding gift, Francis,” Roderich returned coolly. “Van Rijn, I look forward to our meeting.”   
“Likewise,” Jos said as Edelstein took his leave and took his promise of good will to his mother’s ears. Jos slumped against the marble support and let out a sigh, laughing dryly, “Well, that was interesting.”   
  
“That was marvelous, my darling,” Francis whispered before surprising him with a desperate and dirty kiss, arms wrapped tight around Jos’ back, “You are a marvel.”   
  
Flushed with success and the memory of Francis’ gaze when he’d gone to his knees, Jos indulged in the warmth of Francis’ mouth, accepting his hungry and biting kiss and returning the sentiment before he could think better of such things; before he could listen to the little voice that said this time the kisses were not for show and he could not excuse the way his hands reached for Francis and the way his cock stirred with renewed desire as part of the game.   
  
“My darling,” Francis whispered hotly, breath fanning over Jos’ cheek as they grabbed at one another, “Let me take you home where I can go to my knees. Let me taste every inch of you and share you with no one.” Jos groaned and pulled Francis’ hair, nipping at the arrogant line of his jaw and rocking into the roll of Francis’s hips. “Let me show you all the ways we can be so good together.”  
  
Jos snarled and kissed him silent, better judgment warring with wanting, reason giving way to the fantasy of Francis naked and ruined beneath him, sighing his name as Jos remembered the heat of his body and the sweetness of his kiss. The yes was on the tip of the tongue still in Francis’ mouth, his surrender in the next breath he would take, he would do this—he would go to bed with Francis Bonnefoy and give into his weakness for blue eyes and wicked mind…and he would find out why he his thigh was vibrating.  
  
“Wait,” Jos said, stilling, even as Francis kept kissing his now slack lips, and dropped his hand from Francis’ waist to fumble in pockets that were made too tight by his cock and Francis’ wandering fingers.  
  
“Don’t answer it, my darling,” Francis pleaded, only to curse in the most colorful French when Jos reluctantly shrugged off his clinging grasp and the temptation of his reddened and pouting mouth.   
  
Jos swallowed and let out a curse of his own as he read the caller ID, attempting to get his voice to sound professional instead of pleasured as he barked, “Bendtner. This had better be damned important.”   
  
“Oh no, Boss, you don’t get to take that tone with me,” Jens grumbled bitterly, “Not when I haven’t gotten any in three days.”   
  
“What do you want?” Jos hissed, dancing away from Francis’ searching fingers as he pressed his palm over his cock and willed his reckless desire gone. He avoided the temptation of Bonnefoy’s gaze and tried to be grateful for Jens’ timely interruption. He couldn’t believe he had come so close to coming undone once again. Obviously, he needed to get away from Bonnefoy before he lost what little sanity and shame he still possessed.   
  
Only 7 more board members to go.   
  
Jos took a deep, calming breath, and reminded himself that they had a plan and if he just followed the plan, everything would be back to normal soon and he wouldn’t have Bonnefoy’s marks of lust on his neck and the taste of him in his mouth. He could do this.   
  
“Are you listening to me?” Jens groused.  
  
“Yes, sorry…what were you saying?”  
  
“I said we have a problem,” Jens said slowly, “A problem that is sitting in my living room plying my husband with Belgian chocolates in the hopes of discovering where, exactly, her darling Big Brother has gone.”  
  
“Veronika. Damn.”   
  
“Damn right, Boss. Time to go come home and bring that French fiancé of yours with you.” 


	8. Chapter 8

Jos couldn’t decide if being fake engaged to a man wealthy enough to commandeer private planes at midnight was a blessing or a curse. When Bendtner had ordered him home to face the wrath of his sister, Bonnefoy had sighed dramatically, straightened the knot of his tie, kissed Jos’ now wan cheek and immediately gone off in search of Williams. Three hours later and Jos was fidgeting in the luxury of a small personal jet traveling from Vienna to Amsterdam wondering how he was going to die. Francis lolled about in the seat next to him, apparently unconcerned about their fate as he slid on a pair of reading glasses and reviewed the correspondence and paperwork Williams had dumped in his arms just after take-off.

Jos desperately wanted as many of those little bottles of liquor that were given to the peons who didn’t have the means to fly via private plane to wash away the taste of Bonnefoy’s kiss and drown the memory of how good Francis’ skin had felt warm and eager beneath his hands. He also desperately wanted to be drunk enough to no longer worry about his sister’s state of mind, but Jos knew that showing up both drunk and engaged would not help his sorry situation. He looked out the window of the plane at the rising dawn and the approach of the flat farmland of the Netherlands and wished he had more time to figure out how to explain himself.

Francis made a delighted little noise that made Jos want to kill him for daring to be happy about anything when there was a very strong possibility they were touching-down to their doom.

“What?” Jos snapped irritatedly, shifting in his seat when Francis draped over the arm rest and crowded into his space as though it were nothing.

“It seems that we’ve been invited to a costume ball tonight, my darling! As soon as we land, I must send Matthew to our tailor!” Francis said happily, completely ignoring Jos’ reasonable look of horror and pressing the email to his scowl. “To think that Feliks and his family would go through such trouble for me! Oh, don’t look so put out, precious! The  Łukasiewicz’ host famously fabulous and decadent parties. I promise we’ll enjoy ourselves.” Francis smirked, “Well, as much as you’ll let me enjoy you, my little tease.”

Jos’ frown thinned as his gaze narrowed and his desire to shut Bonnefoy’s mouth deepened. He wondered if he could blame sleep deprivation and frayed nerves from too many nearly intimate encounters for committing a crime of passion.   


Francis sighed and dragged the corner of the paper down his jaw, apparently unable to resist caressing him in any way possible. “Honestly, Feliks won’t even be fussed with the authenticity of our true love so long as we put on a good show, my darling. This will be by far the easiest of our conquests.” Francis smiled slyly, alarming Jos with his sudden proximity and the wicked sheen of a pretty mouth too near, “Though I do wonder if it will be as…stimulating…as Vienna.” 

Jos swatted at Francis’ wandering hands and presumptuous face, preferring the blue of the predawn sky to the obvious invitation in Francis’ eyes. “We won’t be putting on any kind of show if we cannot manage to assuage my sister somehow,” he muttered coldly, shifting as far as he could from the warm fingers that tapped idly over his knee. “Business before false pleasure, Bonnefoy.”  


“Surely you don’t expect me to come with you?” Francis asked, sighing when Jos brushed off the slow creep of his fingers up his thigh and settling into his seat with the huff of man unaccustomed to denial. Jos crossed his arms over his chest and continued to shower Francis with his stormy green glare. Francis’ smile dimmed. “But I thought you wanted me to stay away from Veronika? That to me she did not exist?” 

“That was before she came running home from across the Atlantic,” Jos said grimly, taking only the vaguest satisfaction in the thought that there was one other person who would suffer even more of her upset. “You got me into this mess. And if you don’t want to be in breach of contract , I fully expect you to help me get out of it. And quickly, if you have any hopes of parading me around some in some ridiculous costume.” 

Francis’ smile disappeared entirely. “Your darling sister is going to demand my head on a platter.” 

“Only if I am very lucky.” Jos smirked and patted Bonnefoy’s cheek, deliberately ignoring the red mark of shamelessness he’d left on the sweet hollow of this throat. He wondered if Veronika would be so circumspect. “So, ready to meet the in-laws?” 

~~

“You.” The accusations cracked across Jos’ living room floor, thundering from an outraged and exhausted blonde woman with the Van Rijn eyes but little of her brother’s chilly reservation. Jos imagined that many would probably find her beautiful in all her incandescent temper, but at this moment, all he could perceive was the shake in the pointed finger slowly moving from him to Bonnefoy. Her familiar green gaze narrowed to no more than a suspicious sliver beneath a fan of thick lashes. “And you.” 

“Me?” Francis demurred, running long fingers through hair that still showed signs of the destruction Jos’ had wrought on a Vienna balcony not so many hours ago. “It is so lovely to see you again, my dear Veronika.”

Jos thought he heard the cracking of Veronika’s teeth, her jaw was clenched so tightly.  “What is he doing here, Brother?” She hissed, glare snapping back to Jos’ deliberately unmoved expression of forced calm. Veronika shook her head, hair brushing the fullness of her angry pink cheeks. “I wanted to speak to you alone.”   


Jos steeled his reserve, gritted his teeth and took Francis’ hand, trying not to give way when Francis melted against his side with a blithely forced smile. He cleared his throat and waded into battle. “You have every reason to be upset with me. To be upset with us.” He lifted up their joined hands, stifling the urge to roll his eyes when Francis kissed his ring, entirely lacking subtlety when trying to make any sort of point. Jos carefully continued, “But Francis is my fiancé so I ask that you say what you have to say to both of us.” 

Veronika’s eyes widened, her mouth parting in silent disbelief for the briefest of moments before they were deluged in a sea of complaints. “Where am I to begin? Reading your cryptic email and worrying myself sleepless? Discovering through the horrors of the American gossip rags that my only brother has been carrying on a clandestine relationship and is now engaged? The days of ignored phone calls and emails? Abandoning my conference and taking the red-eye home only to discover the coward had gone into hiding? Or maybe it was the betrayal of having to learn from Perez Hilton and US Weekly that the person I trust most in this world didn’t think it worth his time to tell me he was going to marry Francis Bonnefoy, the one man he’d always sworn he’d never again give them time of day?” 

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, temporarily sparing Jos the burning recrimination of her gaze as he tightened his hold on Francis’ fingers to the point of pain just to keep from breaking down and confessing everything. Veronika sighed wearily and shook her head, “So, tell me. What do you have to say for yourself?” She stared at him with a mixture of pleading and accusation. “Convince me you haven’t lost your mind.  Make me understand, Jos.”

Francis shook off Jos’ grip and murmured, “Perhaps we should sit down. I find that apologies and explanations always go better when one is seated.” 

In stiff, uncomfortable silence they shuffled to towards the living room. Bonnefoy pressed into too close on the couch, touching him from hip to knee. Jos watched his sister watching the way Francis presumed upon his personal space, watched her pull her lip between her teeth the way she did when she was a fearsome combination of angry and concerned. 

“I am sorry that you found out the way you did. It was never my intention to make you feel betrayed,” Jos began, only to have Francis splay his fingers over his knee and cut him off at the pass.   


“But you must lay all the blame for the secrecy on me, my darling Veronika.” Francis said gently, stroking Jos’ leg. Jos admired his skill at painting such an expression of genuine contriteness as Francis held his sister’s deadly glare and smiled without flinching. “It is not easy to be my lover. So much scrutiny! So much slander in the vile press! I persuaded your brother to keep our relationship a secret from everyone so that it might have a chance of succeeding.” Francis turned his smile to Jos, murmuring artfully, “It was selfish of me, I know. But I could not risk losing someone so precious. Not even to you, Veronika.” 

He wished it had not taken Veronika’s displeased sigh of resignation to free him from the ocean of Bonnefoy’s eyes, but it was his name on his sister’s lips that called him once more to reality. 

“But when did this start? HOW did this happen? I wouldn’t have thought you would give a second chance to the only person who broke your heart, Jos.” 

Jos closed his eyes and prayed for instant death. “I never said he broke my heart, Veronika. There’s no need to be so dramatic,” he grumbled, looking anywhere but at Francis’ face, unwilling to behold even a hint of smugness or pity. 

Veronika frowned at him, eyebrows creeping up her forehead in disbelief. “As I recall, it was all rather dramatic. I’d never seen you so hurt and angry.” 

As death seemed to be delayed, Jos prayed instead for a sudden lapse in Veronika’s memory to spare him further humiliation. “All in the past. Hardly worth mentioning,” Jos gritted out. “But to answer your question, we…reconnected…when Francis contracted with my firm for some accounting work.” 

“And as the matter was so important, I couldn’t help but request the personal attention of the man in charge,” Francis sighed prettily. “And then I couldn’t help but persuade him to give me some of that marvelous personal attention.” 

“I’m sure,” Veronika muttered, arms crossed over her chest and mouth pursed in distaste. “From what I understand you are far too accustomed to personal attention.” 

“Ancient history, my darling girl. If only I had been wiser when I was young, I would not have squandered such a resource as your brother.”  Jos could no longer avoid the curve of his smile nor the glint in his eyes when Francis kissed his cheek and whispered, “I would not have wasted so much time on frivolous pursuits had I better understood the sweetness of such affections as these. I would have appreciated Jos then as I appreciate, admire, and adore him now.” 

Jos clenched his hand, digging his fingernails into his palm to try to quell the slick racing of his pulse and the flush that threatened beneath his collar. It was hard to remember that all of this was artifice, that every word that slipped from Francis’ soft smile was deception and not devotion, when the touch of a hand to his thigh was gentle instead of demanding and Francis’ gaze was so beguiling. 

“I need tea to deal with any more of this,” Veronika huffed, though Jos barely heard the soft clicking of her shoes as she swept out of the room. 

“You lie so easily,” Jos said lowly, eyes drifting against his will to the parting of Francis’ lips.

“As do you, my little secret keeper. But why believe what I’ve said to be a lie?” Francis purred, pants rustling on the leather of the couch as he crept closer and stroked his fingers down Jos’ face.

“Everything you say is a lie.”

“How very unkind of you, darling! I would be angry if I believed that you believed what you were saying. As you are all too aware, it is only through the calculated use of the truth that a lie can be made most effective.” Bonnefoy said with amusement in the tilt of his lips and charm in the sweep of his hand up Jos’ leg. 

Jos pressed his back into the cushions but Francis followed, fluid and graceful as he stole into Jos’ space and teased, “Would you believe that I am telling you the truth when I say I find your sister’s desire to protect your lack of virtue delightful? That I find your sister delightful? That I would not wish to have her unhappy with us?”

“It would be easier to swallow if you weren’t blackmailing me with her,” Jos said coolly, wondering if he could capitalize on the warmth that had yet to disappear from Francis’ smile even though they were no longer performing for an audience. “All of this would be easier without the threats against my sister,” Jos continued, risking the curl of his fingers around Francis’ waist as he parted his knees and let Francis crawl between them.   


Francis hummed and kissed the edge of his jaw, “But if I were to give up such leverage, how would I be assured that you would not abandon me, my sweet?” 

“You could trust me to honor my word.” Francis’ laughter rumbled against skin chafed by the slow slide of a stubbled cheek against his. Jos pushed his hand beneath Francis’ shirt and smirked. “Or you could trust that I am all too aware of how intertwined my reputation, my fate now is with yours. You do not need Veronika to keep me with you. Practicality and need are enough.” 

Francis arched into the slow brush of his fingers and pressed against his chest, bringing his lips to Jos’ waiting smirk. “An interesting proposition, my darling,” he whispered before Jos’ splayed his fingers and pushed, closing the distance and kissing the man in the hopes of muddying the waters. 

Jos knew it was more than dangerous to play seduction with the master of the art, but there was something new in the way Francis looked at him, in the way Bonnefoy’s body seemed to crave his touch, and Jos had to wonder if there was even something true in the warmth of Francis’ words of praise, something to trust. Francis kissed him lazily, nothing at all like the rush of lust of insanity in Vienna or the anger of a coat closet in Paris. It was almost nice in a way Jos had promised himself he had forgotten. 

“Oh good grief! Would you stop that?” Veronika groused loudly enough to have Jos shoving Francis away, but not loudly enough that he was able to miss Francis’ muttered, and _once more coitus interruptus_. 

Jos glared and tried to compose himself enough to accept the scalding cup of tea that Veronika shoved into the hand that had just been touching the bare skin of Francis’ waist. Francis lounged against his side, shamelessly smiling into his sister’s badly disguised discomfort as he took his own cup. 

“I didn’t want to believe this was happening, but I can hardly deny it when I see that you two still have that annoying habit of forgetting that anyone else exists when you’re together.” Veronika sighed heavily. Jos coughed through the burn of tea down his throat. Veronika rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. It doesn’t suit you. Especially not when I am giving you my blessing.”

Jos blinked. Francis kissed his neck. Jos pushed him away and murmured, “You are?” 

Veronika frowned, “Under extreme duress. And I am still very, very angry at you, Brother. But I don’t see that I have any other choice but to let you dive into potential disaster when I’m forced to endure the way you look at him.” 

Jos opened his mouth, wanting to protest that there was no “way” in which he looked at Bonnefoy, only to snap it shut and choke on his frustrated embarrassment. He could feel Francis’ amusement and curiosity pouring prickle beneath his skin, could imagine the smug line of his smirk as he enjoyed Jos’ surrender. 

But this imagined Bonnefoy victory did not last longer than the twenty seconds Veronika stewed before snapping her fingers and pinning Francis in place with a threatening glare.   


“And as for you, Francis Bonnefoy,” Veronika said lowly, tea cup quivering ominously between her fingers, “If you dare to hurt him again, I don’t care how rich and powerful you are. I will crush you.” 

Francis started, tea sloshing over his fingers onto Jos’ pants as he laughed and protested, “If I should do such a thing, I would gladly let you trample me beneath your fabulous boots.” 

“I am glad we understand one another,” Veronika said, sugar sweet tone poisoned by the lingering threat in her gaze. 

“Of course, my darling. We are family now, after all. ” Francis returned with a happy smile, calmly sipping his drink while Jos tried not to break the fragile china in the clench of his fingers. Francis patted his knee, clearly unfazed by Van Rijns glaring daggers. “But you needn’t worry. I have no intention of ever causing Jos any unhappiness, for he has made me the happiest man by agreeing to be mine.” 

“How nice.” Veronika offered with an utter lack of sincerity. Jos wondered how long it would take him to be let out of the dog house. He supposed he was fortunate that Veronika hadn’t put her teaspoon through Francis’ forehead and let him off with little more than stomach churning guilt and an impending sense of doom.   


“Isnt’ it?” Francis murmured, before clapping his hands and brightening. “So! Now that we’ve cleared up this little mess, I was hoping my beautiful sister-to-be might have some wonderful suggestions for a little costume ball that we’ll be attending this evening! I am at a loss for how best to show our love through fancy dress.” 

Veronika smiled at him evilly, sending a chill of apprehension up his spine. Jos sensed that Veronika smelled the blood of opportunity for revenge in the water. “A costume ball you say? Oh, I am sure I can think of something. Consider it my engagement gift to the happy couple.” 

Jos closed his eyes, let Francis hold his hand, and prayed once more for death. 


	9. Chapter 9

“Not that I want to distract you from your attempts to set Francis on fire with your stare, but did you hear anything I just said?”

“What?” Jos said absently, reluctantly dragging his gaze away from Bonnefoy and the casual way he smiled and kissed a beautiful woman’s cheek. His thoughts were less willing to abandon the object of the evening’s irritatingly constant contemplation. Once, Jos had sworn never to waste so much as another minute of his time on Francis Bonnefoy, and now he stood in the middle of a party celebrating a fake engagement wondering if he could could risk to trust in what Francis offered. 

He thought of Veronika’s anger cut short by resignation to a relationship she seemed to believe was inevitable. He spared a fleeting thought for the unexpected softness of Francis’ kiss that afternoon. He thought of the folio of papers he’d left resting atop his suitcase, each inked with Bonnefoy’s signature and offering that which seemed too good to be true.  He tried not to think of the brush of soft fingers down the slope of his spine as they’d stood together in sinful elegance and been welcomed into the party to thundering applause. He certainly did not think of how he’d leaned into the touch and murmured “thank you” under his breath.

“I was right. I have been rendered invisible.”

Jos winced guiltily as he met Matthew’s tolerantly amused expression. “I’m sorry. You were saying?”

“Uh-huh.” Matthew’s lips quirked, the arch of his eyebrows just visible over the top of a domino mask. Jos realized he hadn’t even taken the time to admire the cut of William’s disguise, but now that he was looking, it was impossible not to allow that Francis’ right-hand man made for a dashing Zorro. Matthew laughed and squeezed his shoulder, warm hand lingering over the bare skin of Jos’ neck as he waved off the apology, “Don’t be sorry, Francis is distracting even at his dullest, let alone at a Łukasiewicz costume ball, dressed as….well, whatever you two are supposed to be!” 

Jos followed Matthew’s gaze as it darted to Francis, surprised when it quickly returned to his own costume, lingering on long lines of his legs in pants that were tailored to the point of obscenity. Jos dragged his hand down the rich black silk of his shirt and tried not to feel ashamed of the way it felt against his chest, indulgent and obviously expensive. It was impossible not to feel ashamed of the belt looped around his waist that was made of 500 Euro notes stitched and twisted together. Ten thousand euros rendered worthless as anything but a splash of color for an all black outfit that spoke of quiet, unnecessary luxury. 

Matthew’s stare was warm and his skin prickled with the unexpected pleasure of being admired. Jos cleared his throat and murmured, “I’m Greed.” 

Matthew blinked and looked away, cheeks flushed. “I’m not sure I follow.” 

“I’m Greed. And he’s Lust. Though I think an argument could have been made in favor of Pride. ” Jos laughed thinly and pointed at Bonnefoy, who caught another hapless victim in the web of his easy allure and wicked smile. It was strange to him that Bonnefoy could be dressed in the same suit and look so very different. But with artfully mussed hair falling over a collar spread wide on a shirt with buttons left undone beneath a crooked tie that Jos had obligingly would around his fingers and pulled while he less obligingly pressed a mouth slathered in red and pink lipstick to his throat, Jos knew that Francis did not need much to wear seduction well.

“Ah, the Seven Deadly Sins. And who’s brilliant idea was that?” Matthew said dryly as they both watched Francis tilt his head back and drain a glass of champagne. 

“My sister’s idea. Bonnefoy’s designs. I think she had something more humiliating in mind.” Jos answered absently, once again damned to distraction by the ripple of Francis’ throat.  


The vision of his lip stains, smudged and lurid over pale skin dangerously stirred desire that was already too warm and thick. Jos hated that his fingers wanted to touch those marks, for all that they were pretensions of possessiveness. He thought perhaps Veronika might have been more prescient than she intend when had smiled grimly at him that morning and dubbed him “Greed.”  


“I’ll bet.” Matthew cleared his throat again. Jos had the good grace to look chagrined at having been caught staring. Matthew’s gaze never left his face, not even when Francis started laughing loudly enough that his voice carried over the din of the party. Jos wondered what was so amusing. He wondered why Matthew’s voice sounded somehow saddened as he murmured, “I am sure it wasn’t her intention to make Francis irresistible to you.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Jos scowled and shifted uneasily, regretting that Francis’ games had rendered him so transparent. Williams’ expression of obvious disbelief in his protest did little to soothe his ragged nerves. Jos sighed and evaded the unspoken question.  “I’ve got a lot on my mind. That’s all.” 

“Care to share?” Matthew asked gently before the kind smile Jos liked tightened into a smirk, “If only to keep you from staring holes into my boss’ back for two minutes.” 

Annoyed to the point of reckless action by the way his gaze immediately shifted from Matthew’s lips to Francis’ throat, Jos shook his head and circled his fingers around a gloved wrist, willing to do something he almost never did just to prove that he was capable of doing something other than watch Bonnefoy charm and beguile. 

“Dance with me,” Jos commanded, already taking two steps towards the other costumed revelers that swayed together.   


“Seriously?” Matthew’s smirk disappeared, replaced by a startled sort of happiness that surprised Jos into softening his grip and slowing his determined pace. 

“Why not?” Jos said, shrugging as he settled his hands on Matthew’s waist and kept his back turned to Bonnefoy. The low lighting made the ring around his finger look burnished and shadowed. “We might as well enjoy what we can of this farce.”   


“Its your engagement party and you’ll dance if you want to?” Matthew laughed dryly, stepping closer as strong palms brushed over his shoulders and then curled loosely behind his neck.

“Something like that,” Jos muttered, wondering if he’d imagine the fleeting and soft curl of fingers in his hair. Matthew’s expression gave little away beyond amusement and a strange wariness, so Jos dismissed the notion and tried to remember the steps of a dance he had not done in many years.

“So, now that we’re having such a grand old time, do you want to tell me what’s got your head in the clouds?” Matthew asked lowly, leaning close enough to speak the words into Jos’ ear.

Jos shivered, though Matthew’s breath was warm and the question was no different from his usual wry kindness. He considered the offer, wondering if this latest gambit of Bonnefoy’s was something to be shared, or if this was meant to be a private play in their little game. He considered so long that somehow Matthew had ended up leading, pushing him through the motions and staring patiently while Jos turned the question over and over in his tired mind.

When it came to Francis Bonnefoy, there was one thing Jos van Rijn had never quite been able to properly calculate. Once, he had given too much and Francis had left him in the red. Now, he gave very little and Francis offered freely to put him in the black.

“Is Francis trustworthy?”

Matthew blinked slowly, as though that was not at all what he had expected to hear, and Jos could not blame him for his confusion because that was not at all what he had expected to say until the words were already leaving his lips. Now it was Jos’ turn to wait and watch as Matthew weighed his answer, but in the time it took for his companion to think, they’d turned and he could see nothing but Francis, intense and predatory as he smiled at Jos.

“Francis never makes a promise he doesn’t intend to keep,” Matthew murmured.

“Francis never promises anyone anything,” Jos answered lowly, remembering what Francis had said to him not so long ago on a morning of too many flowers and just enough apologies.

“Which is why when he does, he means it.” Matthew said so softly Jos could barely hear him over the sudden ridiculous racing of his heart as he watched Bonnefoy lick the edge of his smile and saunter across the dance floor, one long finger dragging down the lipstick littered curve of his throat.

Matthew’s hands fell from his shoulders as another arm wrapped around Jos’ waist, shifting him without asking from the relative safety of Williams’ embrace.

“Mind if I cut in?” Bonnefoy asked silkily, though Jos knew it was nothing more than ridiculous pretense since his wrist had already been captured and the dip of his waist was already under assault. Francis kissed his ear and smiled at Williams. “No matter how unexpectedly lovely a pairing you two make, I expect our charming hosts would like to see a dance from the happy couple.”

Matthew’s expression was shuttered and polite as he murmured, “Of course, shashay away,” and faded into the crowd, leaving Jos with parting glance of concern.

Jos tried not to fold into the curve of Bonnefoy’s hold around his waist, wondering at the fingers that pressed tightly into his side. Francis’ gaze was as blithe as Williams’ had been distant, and Jos suspected there was something he had missed in the changing of his guard.

“Come, my darling,” Francis purred, mouthing his throat while he turned Jos within his arms, “Shall we show everyone how good we are together?”

“If we must,” Jos grumbled, annoyed to find that Francis presumed he would lead, though the rush of desire from the push of Francis’ thigh between his legs as they moved together was more than enough to distract him from attempting to usurp control.

His feet shadowed Francis’ in the steps of a tango while his eyes tracked the contours of Bonnefoy’s face, seeking answers to his unanswered questions in carelessly flushed cheeks and all too knowing smiles. Francis’ gaze narrowed as he dragged his hand down Jos’ back and his lips parted around a pretty accusation, “You seemed happy enough to dance with dear Matthew.” Francis kissed the corner of his scowl without missing a beat, “Or perhaps it was that Matthew was happy enough to dance with you. I shall have to speak to him about the misappropriation of company property.”

Jos had every intention of using his tongue to defend Williams’ honor but Bonnefoy kissed him so deeply he thought his tongue might never want to do anything more than be slipped between Francis’ lips and sucked upon until he couldn’t remember anything but the taste of champagne and the touch of hot fingertips beneath his shirt. Francis hadn’t kissed him with such precise, unmistakable intent in years. It was so good that Jos didn’t think it was worth the breath to complain when Francis dipped him like he was some sort of damsel and then bit his bottom lip.

And while he had no doubt that the dance moves were for show, there was something in the aggression of the kiss and the scrape of teeth that Jos almost believed was more than just a performance for their latest audience. He almost risked to think that Francis Bonnefoy was jealous.

Jos had only begun to tamp down such dangerous daydreams when Francis pulled him upright, released their kiss and spun his thoughts in an entirely different direction.

“Speaking of company property, have you considered my offer?”

“I’ve considered little else,” Jos confessed, licking Francis from his lips as he was effortless maneuvered about the dance floor.

Francis’ smile was as unexpectedly gentle as his kiss has been fierce. “And what have you decided, my darling?”

Jos curled his hand around Bonnefoy’s throat, dragging his thumb over the red imprint of his lips, smearing the colors of a false kiss. Francis tilted his head to side, sighed and clenched Jos’ waist. Jos shifted closer, pressed his lips to Francis’ ear and asked, “Why would you do it? Why would you return control of Veronika’s company to me?”

“Did you do not ask me to do this for you?” Francis laughed lowly, sliding his thigh between Jos’ legs as they twisted and turned, Greed and Lust intertwined.

“I did, but I did not think you would give up such leverage,” Jos said cautiously, finding nothing in Francis’ expression that spoke of mockery or manipulation, only a smile that he had forgotten existed the morning Francis left him. He smudged another of his lipstick stains and asked again, “Why?”

“Why? Hmm, I wonder…” Francis kissed his cheek, kissed the ridge of his brow, kissed the dip of his chin before he stopped the swaying of their feet and held Jos’ reddened fingertips to his lips. Jos watched as he kissed each finger, licked the color away with the curl of his tongue before catching platinum and emerald between his teeth and pulling. Jos didn’t flinch, stood his ground as desire coiled around his heart and Francis stared at him with such warmth and want.

“My doubting darling,” Francis murmured, splaying Jos’ captured hand over a beating heart. “Perhaps I wish to have you bound to me for reasons that have nothing to with blackmail, distrust and deceit. Perhaps I wish to try trust.”

“A risky investment,” Jos said with what thought he had left in the wake of such a revelation. He pressed his fingers into Francis’ chest and wished he could know the true tenor of his heart.

“So, will you let me be good to you, my darling and hope that you are good to me in return?” Francis whispered, breath fanning out over Jos’ lips as he smiled and waited.

Jos closed his eyes and tried to find the strength to resist, tried to remember all his careful calculations. He wanted Veronika free of his mess and so he knew he would say yes. He had not properly accounted for Francis giving him anything he wanted without petty strings attached. But desire and weakness were such unpredictable variables and trust was cordon of platinum.

Jos opened his eyes and Francis was still looking, still smiling, still holding his hand over his heart and offering him too much to resist.

Jos dropped his frown to that damning smile, murmuring, “Yes, let’s be good together,” before kissing Francis for the first time for no other reason than because he could, because Francis was there and for this moment Francis was his to be kissed.

~~~

Jos lit a cigarette and looked out the window and wondered why it didn’t feel strange to be waiting for Francis Bonnefoy to finish his business with their hosts and ride the elevator up ten floors to discover Jos waiting for him, protected by nothing more than the cotton of his underwear and the smoke that curled around his fingers. He took a drag and thought of defenses laid waste on a dance floor and felt reluctantly grateful that Bonnefoy was greedy and assured enough a man not to make him ask. He pulled smoke between his lips and turned to meet the soft click of an opening door and stood almost naked and barely ready for Bonnefoy’s fleeting look of surprise and deepening desire as he crossed the threshold.  
  
The door closed and he exhaled, saying nothing as his heart raced and Francis leaned against the wall and stared. They watched each other in silence, and Jos questioned whether or not Francis’ eyes were good enough to see way his skin prickled under the intensity of his gaze, whether or not in the moonlit darkness he could see the rise of Jos’ cock, hardening with each long second that Francis  looked and did not touch.   
  
As Francis unbuttoned his coat and slid off his shoes, Jos inhaled, smoke filling his lungs and burning less hot than anticipation, less hot than the lust that intertwined with the smoke in his mouth and on his tongue, waiting to be breathed over each inch of skin Bonnefoy gave away. Shirt and belt and pants met the floor and still Jos put his lips to the wet paper of his cigarette and watched and waited, silence thick and heavy and dangerous. Francis moved like shadow and smiled like quicksilver, slipping from sweetness to seduction in the space of a heartbeat as he came to the window and plucked the cigarette from Jos’ defeated fingers.   
  
With narrowed eyes and sweat slicked palms, Jos stood his ground and took in the vision of Francis naked and unbound, hair loose on his shoulders, eyes bled midnight blue with desire, pulling the smoke Jos craved into his mouth and letting it spill from the corners of his lips and into the night. Francis closed his eyes and sighed, leaning forward as the smoke curled in the inches between their bodies, and Jos took a last breath of air that Francis did not breathe.  
  
He swallowed the smoke that Francis blew into the inevitable kiss, sharing the burn and the sting as Francis wet the dryness of his parched lips with the soft touch of his tongue. Jos moaned so deep and so low it ached in his cock when Francis flicked the cigarette out of the window and splayed a hand over the curve of his shaft and surged up, sweetness forgotten in the rushed tangle of lips and tongues and sighs that mingled as surely as smoke. He tried to put his hands on Francis’ waist, to drag their bodies together so he could have the heat of Francis’ cock against hip, so he could slide his fingers from waist to ass and press the tips of each digit into a body that was far, far too dear.

He tried and failed to do all these things because Bonnefoy had always been a bastard that did nothing according to plan, throwing out the Jos’ scripted script by pinning arms that had expected to hold and carry behind his back. Jos struggled in surprise as Francis continued to kiss him without mercy or patience, bottom lip trapped between teeth that knew too well how to trace the line of pleasure and pain. Jos groaned and arched into the sudden slide of a knee between his thighs, Francis’ cock pressed against the cotton of his underwear, sliding against him as relentlessly as the tongue Francis slipped into his mouth and used to steal his last weak willed protest.

Francis hummed and kissed his cheek, kissed his forehead’s scar, and kissed the shell of his ear and called him darling as their feet began the slow and steady tango towards the bed. Jos let his wrists be held behind his back and admired the furious wanting in Francis’ eyes, enjoyed the feeling of a hot mouth running down his throat and over the slope of his collarbone, tongue sliding over divots and dips and tasting all the salt and sweetness Jos had kept hidden for so long. He shared it all because Francis was as irresistible and immovable as numbers.

He could find no other answer than to spread the legs that hit the edge of the bed to welcome the addition of Francis’ weight against his chest, trapping him between sheets and seduction. He tangled his hands in Francis’ hair and fought against the onslaught of Francis’ laughing desire with the kisses he’d hoarded and denied, breaking Bonnefoy’s control with the arch of his hips to bring their cocks together in a slip and slide as filthy and calculated as the twist of his tongue. Francis gasped and bit his lip as he pulled away, eyes glinting with challenge and intent.

It seemed that in this, just as in all other things, Francis Bonnefoy was determined to get his way.

Jos cursed and tugged at blond strands curled around his fingers as Francis raked his nails over his nipples, twisting and pinching as his mouth painted a hot and dirty path down the line of his chest, breath whispering over the wetness left by an arrogant smirk pressed to skin that shivered. He looked down to find Francis between his legs, hair spilling over his thighs as Francis deliberately held his hazy, half-lidded gaze and parted his lips over still covered cock and moaned. Jos watched, breath catching in his throat as Francis closed his eyes, kissed the tip of his shaft and tore the underwear from his body, hips lifting from the bed as cotton scored down his thighs and over his knees and ankles and finally to the floor.

Jos thrashed against the sheets and called Bonnefoy every name he could think of but Francis as he was tugged indelicately to the edge of the bed and his legs were spread over shoulders to brush against too blonde hair. Breath spilled hot over his thighs and rushed over his balls as he felt the tip of a tongue trace the underside of his cock and two fingers slip lower and lower, circling his ass without hesitation, without question. He paid the price for the pleasure of Francis’ lips stretched around his cock in sighs and moans, making sure he owed no more than was due for each swallow of Francis’ throat around him and the teasing touch of fingers that were too soft, too light for all that they petted and spread.

But he did not know that he was ready for the cost of Francis’ hand stroking the slickness of his cock as Francis’ head disappeared lower, pressed between thighs that shook. Jos closed his eyes and gripped the sheets, wondering why it hadn’t occurred to him that a man with a taste for all things illicit would not also want to taste him like this, to push his tongue against his body and make him shameless and wet. Flushed with desire, he couldn’t even care that the bastard pinned his hips to the bed with a heavy forearm, holding him down so he could not arch into the tormenting and too good slip and slide of Francis’ tongue in his ass.

Bonnefoy twined taste with touch, fingers inside, hands stroking his cock and wringing every last concession from his body. Jos’ throat burned from the breaths that broke from his lungs, rushed and shattering sighs with each flick and curl of Francis inside him. He kicked his heels against Bonnefoy’s back and grabbed at the pillow behind his head when that awful mouth sucked hot, possessive marks just below his balls, fingers still pushing in and out, teasing him unnecessarily.

And when he caved, gave in, gave up and gave Francis what he wanted…called his name and asked. Francis kissed the trembling of his thighs and let his legs fall to the bed, leaving him waiting for the inevitable conclusion. Francis answered his question, whispering _Jos_ in a voice hot and thick like damned desire, hands stroking his sides as Jos felt his body being urged to turn over. Glad for the opportunity to bury his face in the sheets, to keep Francis from getting so much for free, Jos permitted his hips to be raised between the splay of two steady palms, permitted his legs to be spread by single knee, permitted the slide of slick cock against his ass. He bowed his head and clenched his fingers in the covers and gave Francis permission to fuck him.

Francis moaned and kissed the back of his neck, lips scoring his shoulder as Jos rocked backwards, seeking friction and heat, urging Francis take his cock in hand and push inside him. Francis slapped his ass and Jos looked over his shoulder and bared his teeth, licking his lips and reminding the smug bastard that he was not the only one that knew how to want. Francis took his chin between two long fingers and brought their lips together in a bruising and unforgiving kiss as the first inches of Francis’ cock slipped into his ass, moving as slowly as the dirty slide of Francis’ tongue between his lips. Francis softened the kiss until it was nothing more than a whisper, murmuring his name one last time before he snapped his hips and drove his cock into the bowing of Jos’ body.

Jos groaned and scrabbled with one hand to grip the headboard, to steady his arms enough to take all that Francis gave, wanting to meet each thrust of Francis’ cock with the roll of his hips. But in this, too, Francis was overwhelming and overbearing, driving him mad with touch of his cock inside his body, stroking him in all the right places to make him breathless and beholden. He slurred curses when long fingers gripped his hair and pulled his head back to meet a kiss that burned as sweet as the spread of his legs and the stretch of his ass. He clawed at the sheets and knew that all of this moment, all of his sweat slicked and shaking skin, all of his sighs and all of him belonged to Bonnefoy.

Francis released his hold on his hair and gave up possession of his lips to drape over his back and curl his fingers around his cock, murmuring praise and taunts into his ear as he stroked and stroked and waited for Jos to give up the last of himself. Jos bit his lip and pushed his hips into the steady, rolling thrusts, seeking more of Francis, taking all that he could get so he would remember what he’d bought and sold in the morning. He thought of the taste of his smoke on Francis’ tongue and came over his fingers, arching into the curve of Francis’ chest pressed so heavy and soft against his back.

Francis’ arm caught him as he threatened to fall in the rush of pleasure. Jos closed his eyes and tightened around the cock pressed so deep inside and let Francis hold him and have him, wondering how he had breath left to give as Francis continued to fuck him. And when Francis buried his face against his throat and wrenched free of the cling of his body, coming hot and thick over the satiated and still trembling stretch of his thighs, Jos gave up his last sigh and wondered what this would cost him.


	10. Chapter 10

When Bonnefoy had cornered him in an opulent hotel in Athens and begged Jos to grant him the great favor of indulging in a weekend off from their whirlwind tour of charm and deception, Jos could not have predicted that he would be swept from Greek shores to a French palace. Though he had always known Bonnefoy to be obscenely wealthy, dripping in family fortune and money of his own making, Jos would not have chanced to guess that when Francis said, _“I am tired, my darling. Let us rest on our laurels and come home with me,”_ that home was nothing less than a chateau nestled in the verdant hills of the Loire. 

It was enough to startle even a man as staid as Jos van Rijn, a man who was currently wearing a fake engagement ring, who had spent the past month running about deceiving powerful people, and who as of late had been having the most debauched sex with the once and former most notorious bachelor in Europe. The fairytale spires and the rolling vineyards that dotted the countryside were enchanting to the point of disbelief, and though Jos had quickly become accustomed to Francis’s surprises of excess, there was little he could do but blink twice, clear his throat, and ask:

“Honestly, Bonnefoy? Your quaint country home is a castle?”

“Hardly a castle, my sweet. A manor, perhaps. An estate at best,” Francis answered airily, though Jos could not mistake the strange sense of ease that had settled on Francis’ face, a quiet happiness that Jos hadn’t seen in many years.  It almost appeared to be genuine.

Jos rolled his eyes and then proceeded to count the number of turrets aloud as the private car drove through the wrought iron gates and up the sort of tree lined promenade that Jos thought existed only in Veronika’s collection of Austen adaptations.  When he reached five, Francis laughed merrily and brought Jos’ reluctant hand to his smiling lips, kissing his knuckles like he fancied himself a prince returning to his palace. 

“Perhaps I misrepresented a little.” Francis murmured, words muffled by Jos’ palm as Francis slid his mouth down to a pulse that should not have been racing from such a ridiculously simple touch. Jos frowned and kept on counting under his breath. Francis left off kissing his wrist, but did not release his hand, seemingly content to keep Jos trapped while he made excuses for not telling his fake-fiancethe full extent of his finances. “But I’ve been craving a respite from the limelight, my darling, and I did not want you to say no when I so desperately need a few days peace from the constant barrage of parties and the incessant interest in my affairs.”

“Our affairs.” Jos reminded him, unable to deny the allure of a weekend free of schemes and plots, even though they were so close to achieving Bonnefoy’s goal and putting an end to this romantic farce. He felt the strain of constant travel, weeks of easy lies, and nights filled with even easier pleasure. Each morning he woke in Francis’ bed, Jos expected to find his arms empty and Francis gone, but to his unspoken surprise, each dawn had brought lazy kisses and Bonnefoy’s insistence that he have Jos at least once before they attempted to bring the world to its knees. These past days, their affairs often began and ended with someone on their knees. 

“Our affairs, of course, my darling! And as they are our affairs and you’ve been so attentive to all my concerns, no matter how great or hard,” Francis leered, teasing the tips of Jos’ fingers with his thumb, “I wanted you to have your share of our rest and relaxation as well.” 

“Your generosity never fails to impress, Bonnefoy.” Jos ignored the obvious insinuation, letting the flush of Francis’ constant desire simmer beneath a stoic reserve that could hardly believe Bonnefoy should want him so often and so obviously.

Francis laughed as the car arrived at an ornate entrance more suited to lost French nobility than a Dutch tax accountant and his playboy betrothed. The car idled as Jos continued to come to grips with that fact that Francis lived in a castle. Francis opened his door with a wink and a tease, “Don’t worry, my dove, I can afford it.”

~~

A half-hour into the grand tour of Bonnefoy’s “humble” home was more than enough to convince Jos that there was very little Francis couldn’t afford. Sweeping staircases and elegantly furnished suites hung with art that looked suspiciously priceless; a wine cellar that reeked of history and fermentation; a library filled with books and their fading leather bindings and a kitchen so large and so gleaming it made his eyes hurt. While Francis prattled on about this rogue ancestor or waxed poetic about his childhood memories of opulent Christmas parties, Jos pretended to admire the shine on the silver while he secretly plugged valuations and estimations into his mental Francis Bonnefoy spreadsheet.

He looked at the great portrait of Grandmother Bonnefoy over the fireplace in the banquet hall and wondered what fiscal intrigue was hiding in her family’s seemingly endless vaults. He looked at Francis, swanning about like the Lord of the Manor, and added another tab, fully intended to pries those secrets from his falsely affianced. 

“Naturally, I keep more modern rooms on the fourth floor and the estate has fully equipped offices in the East Wing,” Francis blithely explained as they wandered into yet another opulent bedroom, “But I think it is important to have several showcase rooms such as this, you know, to maintain the historical romance and drama of the old shack.”

Jos blinked, once, twice, three times when Francis tossed open the heavy brocade drapes and gave light to the most obscene, ridiculous excuse for a bed he’d ever seen. The vaulted blue canopy topped with ostrich feathers and the gilt gold carriage frame put the previous six boudoirs to shame, the rococo indulgence of silk, satin, and too much frippery were more than Jos could handle. He ran his fingers over a coverlet that he imagined was as old as Revolution and eyed Bonnefoy with grave suspicion and mocking disappointment.

“You’ve been holding out on me.”

Francis frowned and wandered over to the ridiculous bed, touching his hand to Jos’ waist. “My darling, whatever do you mean?” Jos glared pointedly at the expanse of two-centuries old pillows and gestured impatiently at their gilt surroundings. Francis’ expression turned irritatingly coy. “Oh, well, if you desire  a tumble on the family heirlooms, you need only say the word, my insatiable sweetheart, and I’ll give you everything you want.”

“There is something I want,” Jos murmured, turning into the curve of Francis’ arm and thinking it served Bonnefoy right to get teased when he’d been keeping such riches from his favorite accountant.

“Tell me.” Francis licked the bottom curve of his smile and slipped his fingers beneath Jos’ shirt, thumb dipping into his navel.

Jos repressed a smirk and a shiver. “I want to know the true extent of your…endowment.”

Francis laughed and kissed the corner of Jos’ lips, hot words slipping into his mouth. “Have you already forgotten how much you enjoyed my endowment this morning?”

Jos turned his head just enough to press the slow arch of his smirk to Francis’ smug, expectant grin and kissed him deeply, pushing the irritatingly assured bastard down to his ridiculous bed that was likely worth a small fortune. Francis sighed happily and pulled Jos’ hair while he parted his legs and tried to get Jos to follow his downward progress. Jos ended his taunt with a stinging bite and the flick of his tongue, arching away to stand with his arms across his chest while he took great pleasure in Bonnefoy’s aggravated pout.

“I’m not interested inthosefamily jewels,” Jos said, glancing dismissively between Francis’ legs. Francis’ huff of annoyance warmed his heart. Jos smiled sharply, “I want to see the Bonnefoy books.” 

“What?” Francis groused, staring at him with disbelief as he struggled to sit up right without sinking into the feathered mattress. “I take you to my secret refuge, steal us away from obligation and responsibility, and you want to while away our borrowed time by sticking your nose into dusty ledgers?”

Jos thought of centuries worth of wealth, thought of the nooks and crannies of this chateau and wondered how the Bonnefoy’s had come to be so rich, wondered how Francis’ crafty ancestors had hidden their fortune during troubled times and wondered when fortune born of nobility had ceased to be enough and a wise matriarch had turned her eyes towards industry. It thrilled him, a little, to think of it and he suddenly craved his Friday mornings with spreadsheets and two smokes.

It had been too long, far too long, and even Francis making eyes at him and attempting to lure him back to bed wasn’t enough to deter this desire that had been building since he first saw Francis’ little pleasure palace.

“Yes. I want your numbers. All of them.” Jos declared resolutely. “Give me everything.”

Francis sighed dramatically, “How you can turn something that sounds so romantic so terribly dull, I’ll never understand.” He rolled onto his stomach and pouted prettily, reaching out to slide his fingers into Jos’ belt-loops. “But very well, my darling, if it will make you happy to play accountant and make merry with the family fortunes, then happy you shall be.”

“Thank you,” Jos said, letting Francis pull him close enough to bend forward and kiss his cheek.

“Anything for my beloved,” Francis teased, pinching his bottom. Jos rolled his eyes and hoped his cheeks hadn’t warmed at the term of over-endearment. Francis looped his arms around his neck and instructed, “Go see Marguerite and tell her that I said to give my fiance full access to anything his calculating little heart desires.” Francis kissed him softly, slowly, and with that hint of strange sweetness that always lingered on his tongue even when Jos would have it gone. He was so distracted by the cloying kiss and the daydream of decades worth of financials that he entirely missed Francis’ parting promise,  “And while you are indulging in my numbers, I shall go sow some wild oats.”

~~

Hours later, when his eyes were aching in the best possible way and his mind was filled to the brim with all of the Bonnefoy family’s dirty historical secrets and clever financial machinations, Jos asked the overly-solicitous Marguerite where he could find his wayward Francis, as he was in dire need of smugly informing the man of the true scope of his fortune. He imagined Francis was off lolling about in some opulent corner of his vast house, or perhaps playing a nice sonata on the grand piano in the music salon, and was not prepared for Marguerite to turn to him with stars in her eyes and affection in her voice as she said,

“I am certain you can find him working in his orchards.”

“I see.” Jos offered blankly. He tried to ascertain if there was any possibility ‘working in his orchards’ was a euphemism and failed.

“Ah, he can hardly tear himself away from tending to his little garden whenever he comes to visit!” the older woman sighed fondly, “It is so nice to see someone so young and full of passion take an interest in working the land. But then he has always liked to get his hands dirty! He’s such a darling boy.”

Jos didn’t know what to say, let alone what to think of this alien impression of Francis Bonnefoy, playboy extraordinaire and apparent hobby farmer. All he knew was that he had to see this for himself and see if it was possible that Bonnefoy could be two such different men. Marguerite was gazing at him expectantly, clearly waiting for Francis’ special friend to echo her praise. He cleared his throat to cover his obvious surprise. He didn’t want the woman who seemed to be Francis’ biggest fan to suspect that his fiance didn’t know all about Francis’…agricultural leanings.

“Yes. He’s, ah, much the same when we’re at home.” Jos said, never feeling more guilty for such an obvious lie. Marguerite beamed at him. Jos resisted the need to press his forehead into his palm. “Perhaps you could point me in the direction of the orchards?”

“Of course! And if you’ll wait just a moment, I’ll pack you a picnic of all of Francis’ favorite treats to take with you! We wouldn’t want him to get hungry while he’s working so hard, would we, dear?” Marguerite said delightedly. 

“No, we can’t have that.” Jos smiled weakly as he watched Marguerite bustle off towards the kitchen. He pushed aside the stacks of dusty books and old ledgers,  a little disappointed that all the dark financial secrets he’d unraveled somehow paled in comparison to this revelation that when Bonnefoy was at home, he was apparently a doted upon and darling boy that liked to play in dirt. 

This, Jos knew, this was a Francis Bonnefoy he had to see.

~~

In order to not feel too foolish while carrying a picnic basket and wandering through old vineyards and leafy forests in search of Farmer Francis’ mythical, Jos orchards, Jos smoked two cigarettes in quick succession and enjoyed the sunshine. But no amount of birdsong or the burn of smoke in his lungs was enough to prepare him for the sight of Bonnefoy standing on a step-ladder, dressed in rolled up pants and faded t-shirt, hands disappearing into amongst the branches and reappearing laden with red apples. He might not have actually been playing in the dirt, but there was still the flush of exertion on his cheeks and his flaxen hair was tangled on top of his head, rendering the polished master of Paris into another creature entirely.

Jos choked and didn’t bother to disguise his disbelieving laughter. “You really are a gentleman farmer. I see Marguerite didn’t lie.”

“Ah, you surprised me!” Francis startled, dropping his apples to the orchard floor as he turned happy eyes to Jos. “And Mamie would never lie.”

“Mamie?”

“Yes, Mamie,” Francis answered tartly, “That’s what I have called her since I was seven, I don’t see why I should change now.”

“How adorable.” Jos teased, more gently than he intended, softened perhaps by the warm fall weather and Francis’ obvious fondness for the woman.

“It is about time you acknowledged my irresistible sweetness,” Francis said, climbing down his ladder and wiping his brown with one gloved hand.

Jos strolled over to Francis’ tree, smirking as he set the picnic basket next to the dropped apples. “I’m still trying to get over this,” Jos plucked a leaf from Francis’ hair, “I’ll consider claims of sweetness some other time.”

“Is it really so shocking?” Francis asked, smiling as he leaned into Jos’ space and then abruptly bent to pick up his fallen fruit. “After all, life can’t be all fast cars and fancy affairs.” He stripped the gardening gloves from his fingers and handed the apple to Jos, “Sometimes even I need something quiet, something simple. Like you and your spreadsheets.”

“True,” Jos granted easily, lulled by this softer Francis and charmed by the pastoral beauty of fruit trees and blue skies. More than the endless rooms of Francis’ home or the annals of the Bonnefoy fortune, Jos liked this discovery of Francis’ frayed pants and stained shirt.  He took a bite of the apple, the juice crisp and bright on his tongue. “Delicious.”

Francis curled in close and touched his mouth to the other side of the fruit, wrapping his fingers around Jos’ wrist as he took a bite. He winked as he swallowed and said, “Of course it is.”

Jos licked his lips and smirked, “Another wonder of the Bonnefoy empire?”

“One of our best kept secrets. But then you are privy to so many, what’s one more?” Francis murmured, closed enough now that Jos could see apple juice on his lips and the flecks of green in deep blue eyes. Jos blinked slowly and wet his lips to taste what remained of the fruit, imagining it on Francis’ tongue.  Without warning, Francis twisted his wrist, sending the half-eaten apple to the dirt. “Would you like to know another, my darling?

“Always,” Jos said lowly, letting Francis push him against the tree and press his warm lips to his ear.

“When you look at me like that I want nothing more than to sweep you off your feet and debauch you on that great big bed,” Francis whispered, tongue tracing the shell of his ear and fingers caressing the answering rumble of desire in his throat.

“You make me sound like some sort of virgin princess,” Jos muttered, splaying his hands on Bonnefoy’s waist and tugging him between his legs even as the bark of the tree rubbed rough against his back.

“Is that such a problem?” Francis laughed and sucked on his throat, hot insinuations in the spread of his mouth over Jos’ skin. Jos arched into the palm that cupped him through his pants, desire stirring warm and thick. “To be spoiled and then fucked in my lap of luxury?” 

Jos titled his head back and let Francis have his way with the edge of his jaw and the jut of his chin. The wind whistled in the leaves and the sun stung his eyes, but he could taste salt and sweat on the fingers Francis traced over his lips and he wanted to see the blue of Francis’ gaze beneath the open French sky. He reached for the messy hair, bunched and tied at the nape of Francis’ neck and tugged, tearing Francis away from the reclamation of the hollow of his throat so he could kiss the arrogance of his smile and bite the temptation on his tongue.

“Maybe I don’t need luxury.” He murmured, spilling his wishes over Francis’ waiting, wanting mouth. Jos swallowed Francis’ sighs of pleasure and kissed him more deeply, demanding in a way he’d yet to test when he still couldn’t trust entirely in the way Francis touched him, shamelessly and carelessly covetous. When Jos pulled away, Francis’ lips were stung a slick red and Jos’ pants were already undone. “Maybe I like it here.”

“I like it here, too.” Francis smiled and kissed the corners of his eyes, fingers slipping boldly beneath his underwear to tease the skin of his half-hard cock. “I like that you know my secrets.”

Jos settled his hands on Francis’ shoulders, thumbs stroking the cords of his neck and he watched Francis sink slowly, slowly to his knees and listened to the crackle of fallen leaves beneath the weight of his gesture. Long fingers tugged his pants and his underwear down his thighs, the cool air bracing against his skin in contract to the hot tongue that dipped to taste the hollows of his hips. Jos braced himself against the tree and spread his legs to make room for the tease of Francis’ hands, still so soft and without the callouses in spite of their apparent love for working the earth. He sighed and pushed his thumb between Francis’ parted lips, worrying it against the playful nip of his teeth while Francis’ fingers traced the curve of his cock and slowly made him fully hard.

“And if someone should see us?” Jos murmured thickly, toes curling in his shoes when Francis licked the tip and blew warm, teasing breaths over the wetness he left with his wicked mouth.

Francis peered up at him, rubbing his cheek against his cock and sighing like he adored it, like he could never have enough of the smell and taste of Jos’ skin. “I would be terribly jealous that anyone but me was allowed to see you like this.”

Jos wanted to scoff, wanted to ignore such ridiculous possessive sentimentality but there was something private and intimate about Francis on his knees for him in his secret garden that burned hot and sweet in his heart. Francis smiled at him knowingly and then spread that smile around his cock without breaking their gaze and took Jos into his mouth.

He watched his cock slip between perfect lips and over a tongue that twisted and turned, wringing groans from his chest and putting trembles in his knees. Francis hummed, the ripples of his throat cruel and delicious, almost enough for Jos to close his eyes, but he didn’t want to lose a single second of Francis looking at him with such warmth and ardor.  But he couldn’t keep his fingers from the tangle of blonde hair when Francis swallowed around his cock and then lightly scored his nails down the backs of his thighs and then between his legs, thumb teasing just behind his balls and pressing down. Francis moaned approvingly and sucked him faster, tongue curling around his shaft and fingers following the up and down bob of his mouth.

Jos’ feet almost slipped on the fallen leaves when Francis slid his lips to the head of his cock, pushed the tip of his thumb inside the clench of his body, and then winked, shameless in his pursuit of Jos’ undoing. Breathless, Jos muttered his name, muttered rough commands for more and dragged down a plumped bottom lip to meet the gentle roll of his hips and welcome the hot press of his cock. Francis sighed, eyes fluttering closed and then open again as Jos took his mouth and slowly stole over Francis’ tongue. Francis stroked his cock with one hand and cupped his balls with the other, rolling them within his palm as he kissed and licked the head and held Jos’ heavy stare as though he wanted to watch the play of Jos’ desire as desperately as Jos wanted to memorize this moment.

“Francis,” Jos murmured, bark biting into his skin even through his shirt and the wind was chill everywhere that Francis did not touch, did not suck, did not take. Francis sighed, low and rough like the feeling that scratched in Jos’ chest, a prickling sense of yearning that Jos had long tried to forget. He closed his eyes and sunk his teeth into his lip, struggling not to say anything more as Francis’ mouth closed around his cock and pulled him slowly into his throat, so deep, so wet, so hot that he couldn’t stop the rush of pleasure that spilled forth.

He was still breathless and slumped against the tree when Francis shared the salt of his come in a desperate, filthy kiss that made Jos wish he were young enough to get hard again and answer the wicked flavor of Francis’ lust. Instead he let Francis have his kiss, let him frame his face with sticky fingers and crowd him against the rough bark of an apple tree. Jos pushed his hand between their tangled bodies, wanting to feel the weight of Francis’ arousal in his palm, gratified to find Francis so hard, so ready, slick with wetness at the tip and pushing aggressively into the curl of his fingers.

“Later, my darling, I am going to take you on that ridiculous blue bed and I will make you blush like a virgin princess with the things I’ll do to you,” Francis murmured, warm lips pressed to his ear as he rocked into the clutch of Jos’ hand. Jos gave a groan of encouragement, closing his eyes and letting Francis paint him dirty pictures. “I’ll spread you wide and taste you everywhere I wish. There will be no inch of you that I won’t touch, that I won’t want to have on my tongue or between my fingers.”

“God,” Jos gasped, stroking Francis harder and faster as he imagined how it would be, uncertain how much more he could bear to hear.

Francis bit his ear and pressed into his arms. “And when your skin is trembling with my name and you feel as though you won’t survive if I don’t touch you, if I don’t have you, then, my darling, I will give you what you need. I will be so deep inside your body and within your heart that you’ll never again be without me.”

Jos turned his cheek into the cup of Francis’ hand, the ring cold against his skin and he whispered “yes” into a covetous, consuming kiss and felt the heat of Francis’ come fall across his fingers.


	11. Chapter 11

“For someone who claimed not to need luxury, you take to it like a fish takes to water, my darling.” 

Jos tilted his face into the warmth of the water spray and ignored Bonnefoy’s taunt, unwilling to be ashamed of proper appreciation for a hot shower in a marbled stall big enough to fit four while long, steady fingers washed his hair and scrubbed gently at his scalp. He would never forget the taste of apples or dirt stains on torn jeans, but he wasn’t impractical enough to turn down the hand that had circled his wrist and led him once more inside the opulence of Francis’ secret little world. Perhaps his mind had still been drugged by cool breezes, senses still raw and  humming with the memory of Francis’ touch, but there had been no hesitation in his steps when Francis had rubbed a cold nose on his cheek and suggested a shower.

Perhaps his earlier yes still tasted sweet on his tongue, perhaps Francis’ promise still burned in his hot chest, but no matter the reason, Jos was beginning to suspect he was as incapable of turning Francis away as he had been all those years ago. 

Now Francis kissed his shoulder and licked the water from his jaw while Jos watched bubbles circle the drain and leaned into the hands that washed his body clean, unable to keep from watching the slow slide of a finger circled in platinum as it traced from the jut of his ankle behind the hollow of his knee to the ridge of his hip and up the divide of his chest to rest at last against his lips. He kissed the wet tip and opened his mouth to let the finger brush against each lip, curling his tongue around the ring and closing his eyes to spare himself the flicker of desire and intimacy in Francis’ ever watchful gaze.  

“Admit it. You adore being spoiled,” Francis whispered, licking up his finger and then into Jos’ mouth, sealing the tease with a kiss that no longer tasted of orchards but only of water and a hint of soap. Jos bit the tongue that flicked against his and did not  sigh as Francis’ pushed his wet hair from his forehead and kneaded the back of his neck, fingers pressing in on every little spot that ached from too many days in too many different cities and the stress of too many little lies. He settled his hands on Francis’ waist and dipped his head to rest on Francis’ shoulder, giving into the pleasure that spooled warm and thick in his stomach with each gentle rub and squeeze of too knowing hands. “And you were made to be spoiled, my darling.” 

“Ridiculous,” Jos protested quietly, all too aware that his argument lacked standing when he was arching into each sweep of Francis’ hands and turning his face to be kissed. “Do you even believe half the things you say?” 

“Only the important half, my dove.” Francis’ flicked off the shower and pressed wet and warm into Jos’ lazy, accepting embrace. “And your need to be spoiled so finely, so sweetly is of the utmost importance precisely because you think you don’t need it.” Jos scoffed and tried to pull Francis’ bottom lip between his teeth, wanting to ruin his pretty little speech. But Francis avoided his trap, laughing and tugging him out of his palatial shower to assault him with towels. Francis’ circled him from behind, chin resting on his shoulder and breath hot against his ear as he murmured, “Fortunately for us both, I suffer from the desperate need to be the one who spoils you.” 

“I thought you wanted to debauch me.” Jos countered lowly, exhaling as Francis dragged his nails up his chest and brushed over his nipple before splaying his palm over the beating of his heart, holding him tightly against his still shower warm skin. 

“I want to do both, my prince,” Francis promised, kissing the length of his throat and sucking just below his jaw, a hidden spot that never failed to make him shiver and feel the beginnings of arousal stir between his legs. Jos wished he didn’t appreciate Bonnefoy’s ability to exploit weakness quite so well, his answer already on his lips before Francis’ slid his thigh between Jos’ legs and whispered, “So, may I? Will you let me?” 

~~

“Reneging on your word?” Jos asked lowly as Francis pushed open a door he’d yet to enter, revealing a room that lacked history if not finery.

Francis stripped the towel from his waist and lowered him to the mattress, smiling slyly in the softness of the early evening light. “I want you in my bed, not on some antique my great-grandfather doubtless used to dally with the maid.”

Jos dropped his head to rest on the pile of pillows, muttering, “Not in the mood to maintain family traditions?”

“You are not the help, my darling.” Francis picked up his foot, pressing his thumb into the arch and cradling it against his chest as he scraped his teeth over the tips of his toes. “And I do not bring just anyone to my home, to bed.”

“Oh?” Jos sucked in a breath at the seriousness in Bonnefoy’s gaze, the flippancy of so many teases gone, replaced by an intensity that warmed his skin and made him hard.

Francis kissed his ankle and flattened his palm against his calf, kneading his muscles and tickling the hollow of his knees. “And so you see you are already so very spoiled,” Francis murmured, raking his nails ever so lightly from knee to thigh, leaving shivers in the wake of his too gentle touch.

Jos watched through hooded eyes with anticipation that burned low and hot as Francis returned his foot to the mattress and crept ever so carefully between his legs. Jos gave away nothing as Francis cupped his face, thumbs stroking his cheeks as he whispered, “I could do so much more, give you so much more, deny you nothing you desired.”

“And in return?” Jos asked roughly, unable to dislike this game Bonnefoy wanted to play, always weak to barter and exchange and held captive by the finger that deliberately caressed his lips even as he spoke, tracing his words with touch. He turned his face to kiss Francis’ palm, “What’s the catch for such indulgence?”

Francis smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of pleasure and expectation. “Nothing more than for you to let me take care of you,” Francis kissed his disbelief, slid his tongue into Jos’ mouth and stroked his hair with cloying, obvious affection. Jos bent his knees to cradle Francis’ hips, tried to deepen the kiss only to have Francis deny him with a thready laugh and a low admonishment, “No, my darling. You must let me.”

“So I’m to just lie back and look pretty?” Jos grumbled even as he tilted his head to make room for the soft travels of Francis’ mouth down his throat.

“Not at all, my darling.” Francis’ teeth closed around his earlobe while his hand skated down the length of his body to dance over his hip. “You’re to moan, say my name, even beg if you’re so inclined.” Jos scoffed and threaded his hands in Francis’ still damp hair, pulling until he could see the sheen of his smirking mouth. That mouth touched his, breathing hot against his lips as Francis whispered his fingers over his cock and murmured, “The only thing you cannot do is come.”

Whatever Jos had to say was lost in the sweep of Francis’ tongue and the press of his lips, acquiescence coming in the form of a muffled sigh of lust and intrigue. It was difficult to remember that there had been a time when Francis Bonnefoy was synonymous with “no, never again,” when Francis was touching him so softly, so carefully everywhere and nowhere are once.

“Don’t worry, I will not leave you wanting.” Francis promised, voice rough and low from the depths of their kiss. And when Francis kissed the corner of his worried mouth and then disappeared to sit regally between the spread of his legs, it was on the tip of Jos’ tongue to confess that he no longer trusted to know what he wanted, not when Francis was looking at him like he was an irresistible pleasure.

Jos closed his eyes to spare his mind the torment of Bonnefoy’s untrustworthy affection, focusing instead on the lips that closed around his fingers, each digit  kissed. His skin answered the call of Francis’ touch, warming to the hands that kneaded the muscles of his arm and raising to meet the fleeting press of a mouth to each nipple, teeth and tongue circling and sucking. His stomach trembled beneath the rush of breath and the slow brush of hair as Francis moved down, down, nails scoring little pink trails down his abdomen and over his hips. His fingers clenched in the sheets and he worried his bottom lip as a tongue painted shapes over the ridge of his hips and the hollow of his navel, and hands caressed the dip of each rib, the cut of each muscle.

His throat worked with choked gasps and bitten off sighs that he didn’t yet wish to share with Francis’ greedy ears. Francis filled his silence with hums of approval with each shiver that followed in the wake of a kiss and murmurs of encouragement, ridiculous little whispers of praise each time his body rose from the sheets to chase Francis’ touch. It was obscene, unexpected and unfathomable to suffer such attentions, to be endure the weight of such lavish, singularly opulent desire. 

Jos opened his eyes to find Francis watching him, watching him so intently it wrenched an angry groan from recalcitrant lips when Francis blew softly over the head of his cock and then abandoned his need to litter kisses on the bend of his knees. Francis licked the edge of his smile and shook his head, murmuring roughly, “Patience, patience, my darling. Turn over for me.”

Perhaps it was the forced restraint in Francis’ words, the low tone of wanting that had him rolling onto his stomach, pillow clenched beneath his arms. Or perhaps it was the feeling of Francis’ cock pressed against his thigh that made him swallow all his protestations and only sigh as he buried his face in the pillow and wondered how long Francis would make him wait.

“This is difficult for me as well. Not to answer your unspoken demands.” Francis said, licking the shell of his ear and then kissing what little of his lips Jos permitted to be reached. Jos bit at Francis’ mouth and tried to arch up, seeking the warmth of his skin and the drape of his body, but Francis stayed away. He held himself away and gave only the tip of his tongue running down the length of his spine and the sweep of his hands over shoulders and neck and sides. 

He gave Jos only enough to make him want more, frustratingly gentle and attentive, palms splayed over his hips and mouth pressed open and hot at the base of his spine,  eleven points of touch that were driving him slowly crazy. Jos shifted, sweat starting to bead on his forehead, fingers grasping at the pillow beneath his arms as he listened to the pounding of his heart, breath caught in his lungs as Francis stayed perfectly still. His skin shivered and his resolve shook with each second that passed, cock trapped against the sheets and aching from the intimacy of such a tease. 

“Ask me,” Francis murmured, lips moving lower as the words trailed over his skin in a soft, slur. Hands left his his hips, fingers settling beneath the curve of his bottom, kneading and cajoling. Jos swallowed, arched his into the possessive hands that dipped lower and pushed wider, palms flat against thighs that trembled. Francis’ tickled his skin, his breath hot between his legs and the kiss he pressed, open-mouthed and wet to his ass was too much to deny. 

Jos parted his lips and sighed, letting Francis hear the wanting in his voice and hoping it would be enough, because he didn’t wish to beg with words when his body betrayed his pleading so obviously. Francis sighed in return, the sound of it broken and muffled by the sudden touch of tongue against him, as soft and slow as every other touch Francis had bestowed, spoiling Jos with such deliberate attention. 

He felt the rumble of a “yes, yes,” in the clench of his thighs and the cling of his body around the tongue and finger that slipped inside, sudden slick wetness that eased the twist and burn. Jos wondered at Francis’ desire, wondered at this welling of feeling in his chest when Francis kissed his thighs and murmured his name, wondered why he was being undone so carefully when he had been ready to fall since his first glimpse of an apple orchard. 

He repaid his debts as he could, setting free his voice and pushing into the slow curve of Francis’ fingers and the press of lips and tongue, showing as best as he could that he, too, wanted this—wanted to be spoiled and ruined by Francis’ touch. Francis gave him more, kept on giving until his chest was heaving and the need to slide his hand beneath his body and stroke his cock was almost unbearable. 

Jos wanted Francis to kiss him, wanted to open his eyes and let Francis see how he desired him, how he hated him, how he loved him and how he would never chance to tell. 

But perhaps Francis heard this, too, in the sweat that slicked his back and in the shaking of his legs and the rasp of his breath, because hands that were no longer so steady took him by the hips and urged him once more into his back. Jos bit his lip and gave into the urge to reach for Francis, tangling his fingers his hair and pulling him down to kiss his swollen mouth and press his palm against his red cheeks.

Without pause, Francis pushed him to the pillows and trailed his fingers just once over  Jos’ cock, a fleeting touch that was enough to have curses spilling from his lips and his  back arching from the bed. Francis kissed him more deeply, soothing the ache with the sweep of his tongue and the first press of his cock against his ass, a subtle, teasing pressure. Jos doubled down on the kiss, sucking Francis’ tongue between his lips and twining his fingers in his hair, tugging sharply as he thrust his hips and took what he wanted, spreading himself wide and pushing Francis’ cock further inside.

Francis groaned dug his nails into Jos’ thigh, a sting of roughness in an afternoon of touches too sweet, tearing away from the kiss to rest his head in the crook of Jos’ shoulder while they both tried to breathe. Francis licked his throat and rolled his hips, sliding all the way inside and finally giving Jos a measure of friction he sought, cock pressed against Francis’ stomach, wetness spreading against hot skin. He could taste the sweat of exertion on Francis’ skin, could feel the strain in the arm braced at his side and in the fingers that still clutched at his thigh, bruising him in a place that no one but Francis would ever see. 

“My darling,” Francis said shakily, lips tracing a rushed path from ear to chin to Jos still parted mouth. “You like numbers, yes?” 

“What?” Jos mumbled, too occupied with trying to get Francis to move, to touch him, to do anything to get him to fuck him the way he would never admit to wanting to be fucked. 

Francis kissed his confused lips and then dragged his leg over his shoulder, bending over him as he finally, finally, curled his hand around Jos’ cock and murmured, “Count with me, my prince.” 

He didn’t understand, couldn’t find the formula he needed until Francis moved his hips in short, sharp little thrusts, and stroking Jos’ cock with quick jerks while whispering, “One, two, three.” He didn’t know the answer until Francis breathed out, “Four,” and slid so deeply inside that his toes curled in the tossed covers and his voice broke on Francis’ name. 

“Count,” Francis slurred desperately, starting the sequence again while Jos clung to his  shoulders and tossed his head against the pillows, mouthing around one, two, three and craving the rough rush of four. He repeated it over and over, as long as Francis stroked his cock and pushed into his body, heat spreading between his legs and pooling in his stomach. He struggled to look at Francis, to hold the gaze that didn’t waver, so determined and devoted, and hoped to trust. 

And when Francis cheated at the number two, driving in deep as he crushed their bodies and their lips together in a messy, desperate kiss in the wake of his murmured, “ _Come for me_ ,” Jos denied himself no longer. He twisted in Francis’ arms and clung to him, inside and out, biting on the lip that sacrificed itself between his teeth as at last Francis gave him what he needed.

Francis’ groaning sigh filled his mouth as he was filled with Francis, pinned and bent into the mattress while every last moan was wrung from his body and his come pooled between their chests. The roll of Francis’ hips and the press of his cock turned erratic and rushed, the hitch of his breath thready and broken. Jos took pity on the man between his legs and within his body, winding shaking arms around a taut neck and whispering what he thought Francis wished to hear.

“Yes.” 

In the moments after, with Francis draped heavily over his chest and wetness on his thighs, Jos opened his eyes and held his hand before his face, the ring that obligated him glinting in the light of a setting sun. He sighed and dropped his hand to the quiver of Francis’ back, caressing him gently. Debauched, spoiled, breathless and not a little wary of the desire to ask Francis what he needed, what he wanted, Jos buried his head in the hollow of Francis’ throat and waited for Francis to tell him what on earth they were supposed to do next. 

Francis laughed and pushed him against the pillows, fingers twining in his hair as he kissed his worried scowl and said, “My darling, I do hope you have cigarettes hidden somewhere in your suitcase because after  _that_  I simply cannot do without.”

Jos grumbled, captured Francis’ smile with his lips, and wished he could deny Francis anything at all.


	12. Chapter 12

Between the opulent hotels of Vienna, Athens, and Paris, Jos had slept in so many different beds that it took him several moments after opening his eyes to yet another unfamiliar bedroom to remember where he was. It was discomfiting to wake, blinking into the early morning light blearily connecting the dots that now made up the insanity that was his life until he and try to remember where he’d been before he’d fallen asleep.  The only constant that had followed him from city to city, from falsehood to falsehood, was the man who slept beside him still, his too familiar arm draped over his chest, and his leg hooked over Jos’ waist, taking up more space than was fair-- as though he was entitled to all of Jos’ space and attention even in sleep. It should have been infuriating, this slow encroachment on everything that was his, but in the soft light of Francis’ bedroom, there was something that quelled Jos’ irritation.

On other mornings, in other cities he did not know, Jos had shoved Francis away, crawled out of the loose tangle of their embrace and ignored each sleepy protest that begged him back to bed because he needed room to breathe, room to remember that all of this was a lie he’d never wanted. But on this morning, with the memory of Francis’s one-two-three echoing still in his ears and the pictures of Francis’ life hanging on the bedroom walls, revealing and intimate in a way that Jos had thought he’d long forgotten, Jos found he wanted to stay.

He wanted to turn his cheek on the pillow to watch Francis sleep, easy and uncomplicated as he never was when he was awake and mixing truth and deceit with every breath he took. He wanted to indulge in the foolish, useless craving to slide his fingers through the tangle of Francis’ hair, the same hair that he had come to expect to find splayed on his pillow in the morning. He now found the same strands hidden on his shirts because Bonnefoy had taken to having their  things packed in a single bag because Bonnefoy was always presumptuous, never considering that perhaps Jos would prefer not to be reminded of whose ring was on his finger and whose long, gold hair he was brushing from the linen of his shirt.

Francis, who had always been inescapable, undeniable--the kind of man who commanded attention effortlessly and had always been so damningly, dangerously good at making Jos want to look. In the dim light of Francis’ room, with a view of Francis’ orchard from the window, tucked into Francis’ bed and hidden away from ruse and responsibility, it was difficult to remember why he shouldn’t want to look, want to touch, want to be close.

Jos took a single curl between thumb and finger, shifting his hips until his leg was between Francis’ knee and he could drag his thigh against the warm skin of Francis’ cock, watching through narrowed eyes as his breathing hitched and his lips parted on a quiet, sleep-slurred sigh. It was addictive, threading Francis’ hair between his fingers and sliding his leg slowly back and forth, while witnessing Francis’ cheeks flush and feeling his cock grow hard and hot. Francis’ thighs fell open wide, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as his body shuddered and came fully awake. Francis smiled and arched, like a spoiled cat lounging in the sunshine and aching to have a hand stroke down the long line of its back.  

 

Jos pushed Francis onto his back, covered his eyes with his hand because the illusion would be broken if Francis looked at him with that irritating, heart-burning, too clever gaze. Francis laughed but acquiesced to his unspoken request with the flutter of eyelashes against his palm. Jos tucked his smile into the warm hollow of Francis’ throat, let Francis’ ridiculous hair fall in tangles over the side of his face as he kissed beneath Francis’s ear and rolled their hips together. It was too warm under the covers, with Francis’ arms wrapped around his back and holding him gently in place as they moved together, and Jos could barely breathe between wasteful kisses, but he remained under the sheets and within the embrace.

He stayed with Francis, intertwined and barely moving but for the idle, unhurried rocking of their bodies. He stayed with his mouth parted over the hum of Francis’ pulse, with his hand cupping Francis’ cheek, with his face buried in the safety of Francis’ shoulder until their cocks were slick and sliding together, leaving little trails of sticky warmth on his stomach. He stayed and blocked out the morning, ignored the world outside Francis’ secret little kingdom for this ill-advised weekend of pretending beyond pretense. He stayed to listen to Francis murmur and groan, voice still rough with sleep when he called him by his name and not a false endearment. He stayed and kept Francis pinned beneath his long legs, teased out the indulgence of something as simple clinging limbs and a messy embrace, until he felt Francis sigh and go still, the feeling of Francis’ come against his skin rousing him from his lazy exploration of Francis’ throat.

Jos raised his head from the ruin of Francis’ hair to watch the pleasure play out across his face, dipped his thumb into the mouth that parted around a moan that was for him, because of him, given only to him. Francis’ eyes opened, bright and clear like the sky beyond the bedroom window, and his tongue curled around Jos’ thumb. Jos pushed his cock through the lines of Francis’ come, let it cover him as he fucked Francis’ mouth with his thumb, slipped it over his tongue like he slipped his cock between sticky warm thighs .  Francis hummed and hooked a leg around Jos, urging him to go faster, but Jos would have none of it, wanting for a moment longer to have Francis on his terms and his terms alone.

Francis closed his eyes and smiled as Jos pulled his thumb free, trailed it wet and shaking over the shape of his face, tracing the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth and the stubble at the edge of his jaw. The sun peeked through the curtains, dawn breaking somewhere over Francis’ unexpected orchards as Jos brushed the hair from Francis’ forehead and pressed his lips to Francis’ in a close-mouthed kiss that could have passed for sweet and chaste were they anyone other than themselves. The kiss lingered like that, soft and barely there until Francis laughed, his tongue pressing into Jos’ mouth as his hips arched from the bed and wrenched a groan from Jos’ lungs that broke his control and had him biting Francis’ mouth while he came over his stomach.

And because Bonnefoy was an exploitative bastard, Jos found himself tumbled onto his back to be kissed until his mouth stung and he was sated enough to be tempted back to sleep. Jos yawned and pushed at Francis’ face until he left him enough room to breathe, ceasing the sort of kissing that Jos’ practicality insisted was better left for after an encounter with a toothbrush. He preferred not to dwell on what it meant that he hadn’t minded, choosing instead to watch as Francis stroked his hands down his body, fingers trailing through the mess they’d made and bringing them to his lips like a cat with cream.

Jos rolled his eyes and struggled to prop up on his elbows, only to have Francis splay slick fingers on his chest and push him down with a strangely soft smile. Jos relented, suspiciously confused as Francis climbed out of the bed to parade shamelessly around his bedroom.

“What are you doing?”

Francis peered at him over his shoulder, “I thought such a lovely and unexpected wake-up call should be rewarded.”

“With the sudden absence of your presence?” Jos asked, scratching his stomach and reluctantly appreciating the flex of Francis’ ass when he stepped into a pair of discarded pants. “If I had known that was all it took, I would have gotten you off a long time ago.”

“Who said it had anything to do with me?” Francis snorted and slipped Jos’ undershirt over his head. He padded over and placed an obnoxious kiss on the tip of Jos’ nose, murmured, “Perhaps I take the most pleasure in your pleasure, my darling.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” Jos gave him a sour look that almost certainly did not distract Bonnefoy from the color on his cheeks.

Francis brushed his hand down Jos’ chest, drummed his fingers over his heart and smiled slyly, “How long until you believe not everything I tell you is a lie?”

“You’ll be waiting a lifetime,” Jos retorted, though he knew that was a lie, that his awful weakness for Francis made him want to believe, had him believing already against his better judgement and all his better instincts that there was something to believe in the way Francis touched him.

“How fortunate for me that’s exactly what I’ve offered you!” Francis laughed brightly and waggled his hand in Jos’ face, the sunlight glinting off a platinum band and stinging his eyes until Jos glared and smacked the offending appendage away. Francis pouted and bent down to steal a kiss, fingers teasing down his body to cup his cock as he whispered,  “But perhaps you can trust me now when I promise that if you give me twenty minutes alone in the kitchen, I’ll happily satisfy any hunger you may still have, my treasure.”

“Go away,” Jos grumbled into the kiss that he let linger for far too long, lulled by Francis’ seeming inability to stop kissing him, to stop tracing little circles over his hip bones and sighing into his mouth.

“I find myself hard pressed to do so,” Francis said as he straightened and stepped away, gaze still fixed on Jos’ lips, before he shook his head and turned away, offering lowly, “I think I like the picture of you in my bed far too much, my darling.”

Startled, frustrated to be left alone with the stirrings of arousal that were Bonnefoy’s responsibility, Jos watched Francis stalk out of the bedroom and wondered what in the hell he was supposed to make of such a parting shot.

~~

 

“I don’t think counts as making me breakfast,” Jos noted dryly when he made his appearance in the kitchen exactly twenty-five minutes later, only to discover Francis lounging at the table with the newspaper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, while Marguerite was busy at the stove.

Jos rubbed a hand over his jaw, down his throat and hoped that his many...encounters...with the man of the house had not left any visible evidence. He preferred that Marguerite remain blissfully ignorant of her precious Francis’ appetite for anything other than a home cooked meal.

Francis smiled, folded over his newspaper and tipped his cup to Jos. “Mamie absolutely insisted! And I never could deny Mamie her heart’s desires!”

“Do you have any shame?” Jos said, not bothering to hide his evident disbelief as he pulled out the chair opposite of his lazy, dissolute fiance.

“Of course not,” Francis answered drolly. “Shame is so bourgeois.”

“Behave yourself, Francis!” Marguerite called over her shoulder, frowning at a suddenly chastened Bonnefoy before turning a sunny, winsome grin on a startled Jos. “I insisted that I have at least one opportunity to cook for my Francis’ young man before you go running off again.”

“I’m honored. Thank you very much.” Jos said, turning away from Marguerite’s kindness so he could betray none of the guilt he felt at deceiving an old woman who so clearly wanted only happiness for her surrogate son.

“You are so welcome!” Her brow furrowed as the pans on the stove sizzled, her voice forlorn as she lamented, “If only Francis had told me earlier that you would both stay for breakfast, I could have made your favorites! I hope that crepes will be alright.” Marguerite smiled at him hopefully, “Francis told me you enjoyed those.”

“Did he now?” Jos stared at Francis, who grinned and pushed the paper at him, slipping away from the table.

“I know what you like, my darling,” Francis teased, running his fingers through Jos’ wet hair as he passed, and winking at Marguerite. “I am here to cater to your every whim.”

“And here I thought it was Marguerite catering to my whims while you sat on your ass,” Jos retorted coolly, flicking away the fingers that had started wandering down his neck.

Marguerite laughed, the curls of her gray hair shaking as she lifted the crepe from the pan. Bonnefoy sighed dramatically, sauntering away to wrap an arm around the woman’s shoulders and kiss her cheek.

“Do you see how he doubts me, Mamie? Isn’t he cruel?”

Jos scoffed and snapped open the paper. Marguerite’s laughter echoed ever more loudly in the kitchen.

“I think it is about time you met someone who keeps on your toes!” Marguerite slid out from under Francis’s clinging, pouting embrace to present Jos with the most beautifully prepared crepe he had ever seen. She smiled at him, reached out to pat his cheek with a warm and wrinkled hand. “I think it is about time you met this man who makes you so happy, my dearest boy.”

Jos held his breath, chest tight with the same annoying desire that had plagued him since Bonnefoy first took him to bed, the desire to believe that her words were true--that perhaps he hadn’t been misled by the strange new, but not unfamiliar, tenor of Francis’ affection.

“I see I have already been cast over,” Francis groused, setting a cup of coffee in front of Jos and taking up residence in his personal space. “I am no longer the favorite.”

“You were never my favorite,” Jos muttered, eying his breakfast and wishing Francis would get off of him so he could eat.

“Ah, to be so forsaken!” Bonnefoy said muffling his ridiculous laughter in Jos’ shoulder. “You both wound me so deeply, I fear I shall never recover.”

“You always were a such silly boy. You should count yourself lucky that we adore you as we do to put up with such antics,” Marguerite sighed fondly, offering Jos a smile of long-suffering camaraderie.

Jos hoped that Bonnefoy was still too busy crying crocodile tears into his shirt to notice the sudden clench of his jaw or the awful flush that crept up his throat. Marguerite stared and stared at him until he managed a stiff nod of agreement, even though he was certain he felt no such thing for the man who had stopped wailing in favor of dusting little kisses over the curve of Jos’ ear.

“Try your coffee, my darling, I made it just as you like.”

“Black? Please, don’t strain yourself.” Jos rolled his eyes but reached for the cup regardless.

“Bitter, but strong and lovely and absolutely delicious. Just like you.” Francis whispered, all but climbing into his lap. “And so very good first thing in the morning.”

Jos tried not to choke as he swallowed, waving away Marguerite’s concern and hoping she hadn’t overheard. He shoved at his lap-full of inappropriate Frenchman and ordered:

“Get off.”

“ _With_ you? Anytime, my sweet.”

“ _Of_ me. Now.”

Francis’ laughing and false pout pressed against Jos’ mouth, smothering irate words and tasting of sugar. Pinned in his chair, clinging to a cup of hot coffee, Jos had little choice but to take Francis’ kiss, to soften his embarrassment and bury his reluctant amusement in the slow, deliberate brush of Bonnefoy’s lips.

“Ah! My goodness, to be that young and in love!” Marguerite sighed so dreamily it sent Jos crashing back into what passed for reality, opulent country palaces and apple orchards notwithstanding.

Francis stilled against his chest, the kiss falling as Francis climbed out of his lap.

“Eat your breakfast, my darling. You don’t want Mamie’s cooking to get cold.” Francis murmured, oddly subdued. Jos looked at him questioningly but Francis only drifted back to his side of the table to fiddle with his silverware. The silence lingered, tense and unsettling, until Francis rolled his shoulders, favored Jos with his usual insouciant smile, and declared, “Besides, it is an awfully long drive to Monaco. I wouldn’t wish my beloved to depart on an empty stomach.”

"Monaco?" Jos took the obvious out Bonnefoy offered, sipping his coffee and ignoring the racing of his heart.

"Mmm, I believe its time to pay my dear cousin a visit." Francis smiled serenely and reached out to Marguerite, clasping her hand and gazing at Jos speculatively. "Tell me, my dove, how well do you play cards?"

Jos frowned and turned the page of the newspaper. "I don't gamble."

"Why ever not?"

Jos speared a bite of his crepe, took his time with chewing and swallowing because the cooking really was superb and Marguerite deserved better than him and Francis.

"It's a stupid waste of money."

"So practical, isn't he? So very not-French." Francis sighed, kissed Marguerite's palm and raked his eyes over Jos' still early morning deshabille.

"But he has so many other wonderful qualities," Marguerite fretted needlessly, her defense lost in the layers of silent subtext that made up 90% of his conversations with Francis.

Jos slipped the fork between his lips, arched his brow and glared, undaunted and not a little flattered by Bonnefoy's obvious appreciation. It was the look that had broken his resolve for the hundredth time that morning, the same look that had kept his resolve in ever more scattered pieces since a dance floor in Amsterdam when he'd thought it might be worth the risk to bet that this could be something greater than convenience and farce.

Francis released Marguerite's hand but kept Jos' attention, smiling at him with soft, damning affection and desire.

  
"You are right, of course, Mamie. He may not be French and he may not play cards, but I assure you he looks divine in a tux."


End file.
